


A Kind of Magic

by Get_Wrexed



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, An Abundance of Fluff, Angst, Battle of Hogwarts PTSD, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Hogwarts Professors, Hurt/Comfort, Like really slooooow burn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, They'll probably switch at some point, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), like theres gonna be a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2020-10-21 07:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 215,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20689433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Get_Wrexed/pseuds/Get_Wrexed
Summary: A Hogwarts Ineffable Husbands Professor AU requested by some lovely folks on twitter!Hogwarts Librarian Azira Fell and Herbology Professor Anthony J. Crowley get into the rhythm of a new year at Hogwarts. However, two decades after the second Wizarding War, trouble begins brewing yet again. The two wizards are sourced from contrasting backgrounds with bad blood between them- Crowley belonging to a notoriously dangerous pure-blood family of Death Eaters and Azira the child of a Muggle and a Squib. It falls to the pair of colleagues to navigate the dangers plaguing Hogwarts and the Wizarding World. Unspoken feelings and hidden histories complicate the matter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time publishing a work. I hope you guys like it! More to come.

A deep, swirling midnight blue stretched across the ceiling of the Great Hall, providing a perfect canvas for the milky splatter of stars that made up the galaxies drifting lazily upon it. The candles floating amongst the scene only lit the night sky brighter. Twelve dozen pairs of eyes gazed skyward at the simple yet beautiful display of magic above them, perhaps in awe, or perhaps attempting to uncomfortably avert the gazes of the several other hundred students unabashedly measuring the first years up.

“That boat ride in this rain? The poor dears look like lambs led to slaughter,” tutted a wizard dressed in creme robes.

The owner of the voice provided a stark contrast to the rest of the staff’s table, the occupants of which were almost entirely dressed in dark colors. He sat with impeccable posture; his nose practically pressed to the crease between the pages of his book. Only his intelligent blue eyes, peering over his small circle-framed reading glasses, and his fluffy white-blonde hair were visible to the gaggle of students standing expectantly behind the tome.

“Awwwwhhh, nah, they look like that _every_ year,” drawled the wizard beside him. It was inevitable that some of the young, nervous faces turned their attention toward this professor. He looked almost as if he’d wandered into the castle from the streets and made himself comfortable on the seat he liked best. Balanced perfectly on the rear two legs of his chair, he rocked himself back and forth with one fashionable, heeled, snake-skin boot unceremoniously anchored on the table in front of them.

Most likely, the eleven-year olds were wondering if he was gazing at them through the dark shades that concealed his eyes.

He was.

Murmurs broke out amongst the youngest students of, “Is that really a professor?”, “He looks like he must be head of Slytherin, eh?”, and the inevitable, “Why on Earth is he wearing sunglasses in here? Merlin’s Beard it’s dark!”

The subject of the whispers gave a wry smile.

“Popular as always, Crowley,” mused his stout companion, face concealed yet again by the covers of the book.

“An- a- annnnd how many will wind up our little baby puff-lings do you think?”

The blue eyes flicked up yet again to peer at the students, but only for a moment before delving back into his pages.

“_Your _‘baby puff-lings’, and blessed few I should hope,” the blonde mused sympathetically behind his book, “With your antics I can hardly believe they’ve gone and made you head of house!”

“Oh come on, _Professor Fell_,” Crowley emphasized his name in a playful sing-song voice, “You can’t be jealous? They’d have done you, if you’d be bothered to get your nose out of those books long enough to teach.”

It wasn’t empty flattery. Azira was a genius at Transfiguration. Crowley reckoned he could give even aging Professor Flitwick a run for his money when it came to Charms. With how impossibly many Muggle artifacts he’d patiently explained to his pure-blood friend over the past school year, he could easily teach Muggle Studies, too.

“Oh no, Dear Boy,” Fell rushed to reassure his friend, “I much prefer providing a more supplementary education to the students.”

A dark eyebrow arched over Crowley’s sunglasses.

“Is that what you call chasing students out of the restricted section and refusing to let them leave the library with books? ‘Supplementary Education’?” he spoke the last two words through his nose, mocking the man beside him, “C’mon, Azira, you can’t even be bothered to watch them sorted! Don’t you want to see what poor petrified faces you’ll be chasing out of the library next? That’s got to be more interesting than…. th-… than…”

A gangly arm reached forward, the long fingers attached to it yanking the book from the librarian with ease. The chair fell back to all four legs as he raised his shades to squint comically at the cover, his strange amber snake eyes only visible to the man next to him. His face fell deadpan and the glasses fell back down onto the bridge of his nose with a slapping click.

“Evolution of the Common Peruvian Harpy from 1537 BCE to 718 CE,” he read in a pointedly slow, droll voice before staring incredulously at the dining partner to his right.

“Hardly!” Professor Fell rebutted indignantly, “but if it means that much to you.”

He gingerly, but pointedly, snatched the book back, resting it with care safely behind his dishware before lamenting, “Oh, I do wish they would hurry, though. Dinner was meant to be served half an hour since.”

His stomach gargled angrily as if to definitively punctuate his statement. Half the students in the Great Hall were grumbling with the same sentiment. Just as Crowley was about to marvel on Azira’s only two modes of thought (literature and cuisine), a gruff voice to his left spoke up.

“Sorry ‘bout tha’, Professor Fell! Gian’ Squid wan’ed to say hallo to the firs’ years!”

Crowley instinctively picked up his wine glass just before the half-giant sat down next to him, effectively crashing half the dishes in front of them to the ground.

Azira tutted a spell under his breath and flicked his wand, the dishes restoring themselves to their former state and placement before he remembered his manners. A few first years looked on in amazement, not having seen proper magic performed yet. He provided Hagrid a reassuring smile, “Not to worry, Dear Boy. Look at me, complaining about dinner when you shepherd those first years here, rain or shine, every year! Quite commendable, really.”

The bulking man beamed at the praise, chest puffing out and shifting the table with it, sloshing liquid out of several cups, but not Crowley’s. He mused at this small victory, sipping his wine. His victory was a bit premature, he found, as Hagrid nudged his spindly figure with his elbow, nearly tossing the man out of his chair and splashing half his wine onto his black, red-threaded designer robes, “I reckon you got a good few of your lot this year, Professor Crowley.”

It was Crowley’s turn to swish his wand and mumble a quick spell, righting his robes before turning to give Hagrid a toothy grin and a cheeky, intrigued response.

“SILENCE,” cried the sorting hat before another word could be said. The hall submitted obediently to the command.

Headmistress McGonagall stood dutifully next to the hat as it began its song. Crowley chortled at the expression on some of the muggle-borns’ faces as they tried to reason if what they were seeing and hearing was, indeed, a singing hat. Quickly the attention faded as many of the older students got back to whispering at each other. Crowley was, unsurprisingly, no great role model as he, with much focus, held the end of a spoon between his thumb and forefinger, pulled the oval back with his other hand, and launched it at the table’s occupant adjacent to Azira. It smacked her squarely on the cheek, and fell with great ruckus. When McGonagall turned to silently admonish the professor responsible, both the guilty party and the target pointed at one another with equal vigor. The librarian between them wore an expression between flustered and exhausted, staring skyward as if to ask God Herself, “Why must it be I that’s given charge of these adult children?”

One of the first years stifled a giggle, Crowley gave him a knowing grin and held a finger to his lips. When the coast was clear, he leaned across Azira, who let out a silent but notable huff and sat back in his chair, as if that would do anything to exclude him from this nonsense. Crowley tried to pretend his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest at the proximity and that this wasn’t on purpose, and he hoped aimlessly that the pounding from within couldn’t be heard externally.

“Pssssst, Anathema!”

“_Really_, Anthony? A spoon? It’s almost like you could have gotten my attention- oh I don’t know- by _leaning over and speaking to me_?” Professor Device hissed back at her rival colleague and friend, looking forward lest the Headmistress turn back around.

Crowley ignored her, “Wanna make a bet? I get more in my house than you yours. Loser buys a round at Hogsmeade Saturday.”

She nodded, mouth taut, but with an energy Crowley knew well as saying, “_You’re on, Snake-Man.” _

Crowley leaned back into his own chair, much to Azira’s relief.

They were quiet for most of the sorting, occasionally Professor Fell would make little comments of affirmation regardless of house they were sorted into, a small, “So much ambition in this year!” at the fifth Slytherin, or “A good age for academics it seems” at the eleventh Ravenclaw.

The boy who Crowley had grinned at earlier was named Warlock Dowling (must be from a muggle family with a name like that). A burst of giggles erupted the Hall at the name.

“Oof, can’t even pretend to be from a wizarding family,” Crowley empathized.

“And why should he have to? He’ll be alright, it’s not so bad,” Azira said, instinctively defensive with his own father being a muggle and his mother a squib.

Crowley gave a reassuring nod as the boy, who looked like he wanted to die on the spot, was then sorted into Hufflepuff, “I’ll make sure it’s not so bad.” His colleague gave him an approving little smile that made the Herbology professor sure he would melt in his chair. Since Azira started the year before, Crowley found himself surviving day to day off those soft smiles, little comments of praise, arm pats, and endearments.

Indeed, Crowley was Head of House Hufflepuff, a fresh choice made just this year. Since Professor Sprout had left a few years prior, the position had spread here and there, but never to a true Hufflepuff such as Anthony. He was hard-working (when interested), impeccably loyal (to those he trusted most), incredibly patient towards achieving his goals (and chasing those his heart yearned for), and though, he would loathe to admit it, evidently and obviously kind.

His mood soured as a clique of four students watched each other be sorted, and the first- a girl named Pippin Galadriel Moonchild (must be from a wizarding family with a name like that) was placed in Gryffindor. And so, he assumed the other three would be as well. Groups like that always sorted into the same house. His premonition proved correct as the last member of the little gang, an Adam Young, was without hesitation sorted into Gryffindor. The final student remaining of the first years was sorted into Ravenclaw. Crowley had lost his bet 31 Hufflepuff to 38 Gryffindor.

With some final words of welcome, a buffet set itself before them. Azira rubbed his hands together as he appraised the spread before loading his plate, clearly pleased. Crowley rested his loss on an elbow, picking half heartedly at his peas and loaded potatoes with a fork. He rarely ate, his colleagues often mused how they were unsure how he didn’t simply disappear when wine alone sustained him.

“Oh, come now, Dear Boy,” Azira encouraged as he cut happily into his spinach and cheese stuffed chicken breast, “It’s only a drink. Why don’t you come share a drink with me after the students are settled? That should make things right enough! I still have a bottle in my office from when I started.”

A platoon of pixies fluttered in Crowley’s stomach. It wasn’t all that strange for the two of them to share a nightcap, but a long summer apart had left him desperately missing his companion.

“What, did you miss me, Angel?” he gave a coy grin, using the nickname he’d adopted for Azira back when they were in school together. They hadn’t been friends, but the blonde had never thought a lick of it. In the face of being called a “mudblood”, someone calling him “Angel” was the least of his concerns.

“Of course, Anthony!” Azira expressed with his eyebrows raised and his eyes bright, the sentiment expressed all too genuinely.

The pixies spread to Crowley’s chest at the earnestness, and he felt a bit sick, “right. Erm. I’ll be there. After the stud- students are sau- _saught_ after.” His partner forwent addressing his stutter, he always did.

Azira gave a hearty nod, as if glad the matter was settled, and crossed his utensils over his plate, which promptly disappeared. He appeared invigorated as an array of scrumptious desserts set themselves before him. He perked up further as McGonagall, as was tradition, warned the first years of the rules.

“Oh, I _do_ hope she remembers to mention the restricted section,” he said, as if there wasn’t an entire list of rules he’d tacked on the library door that was bewitched so students couldn’t even enter before reading and understanding them. He looked utterly delighted when she did. Crowley was resting his cheek on his fist, gazing at Azira and soaking up his variety of happy expressions until he caught Anathema’s own knowing smile leering behind the object of his affections. Crowley gave her a standoffish glare, her smile grew, and she twitched her eyebrows before turning her attention back to McGonagall. Nearly every witch or wizard on staff knew- except for Azira, that was. None of them had ever met someone so brilliant who was, in tandem, so impossibly thick.

A great ruckus was risen as the staff and students were dismissed. Prefects gathered the first years, pulling them to different directions for their respective Head Professors to meet up. Azira rose to his feet, righting his vest underneath his robes before departing, smiling dutifully at the few students who managed to raise their hands in greeting on his quickest path to the exit.

“Got any adviccccce, Deviccce?” Crowley hissed playfully, raising his eyebrows and shooting for casual, but his black nails tapping on the tabletop betraying his anxiety.

Professor Device looked around her, as if she was about to tip her most profound secret, before leaning in close and whispering urgently, “they smell fear.”

Crowley pulled down his glasses specifically so she could watch the great roll of his eyes before standing, gathering the long sleeves of his robes. She grabbed the end of them, and he turned back to a more genuine smile.

“You’ll do wonderfully, Anthony, the students already love you. Just remember a lot of the first years are afraid and probably homesick already,” she expressed, genuinely this time.

He gazed at her for a moment behind his shades before giving a noncommittal shrug and “Hnnnm” of understanding, and of thanks. Fully Fluent in Anthony J. Crowley, Anathema found this satisfactory and released the fabric of his sleeve.

The first-year Slytherins looked fairly flabbergasted as they gazed expectantly at Crowley, and he breezed past them with only an eyebrow waggling and a slight grin. Their jaws dropped further as he swaggered over to the Hufflepuffs, hopping onto the edge of the table, one leg dangling, the other bent on top of the surface, and supporting his weight on one hand behind him. The other remained free so he could fling it about while speaking.

“Good summer, Fawley, Blishwick?” he inquired the Prefects.

“Aye, Professor Crowley!” both responded.

“Cause lots of trouble?”

“You know it, Professor Crowley,” came a toothy grin from Fawley. Blishwick blushed at him, timidly. The first years looked back and forth as if watching a tennis match.

“Well done, you! And the Gigas Darlingtonia Californica?”

“Tried to swallow me mum’s cat, made me cut it down after that,” Prefect Fawley tried to frown, but was grinning too hard at Crowley’s loud, hard cackle.

“Suppose the cat deserved revenge then.”

With that, he turned his attention to the first years.

“Well _helluuuu_,” he mused, unable to contain his smirk at their faces of awe. They seemed in disbelief that this professor was intentionally addressing them, “I’m Professor Anthony J. Crowley. I’ll be teaching you Herbology, and I’m Head of your house. Now, I won’t bother asking you not to cause trouble, I know you will, but just be _sneaky_ about it, yeah? It’d be a shame if you were caught, I have much more pressing matters than coming up with cruel and unusual punishments.”

Unusual? Sure. Cruel? Hardly. Professor Crowley’s punishments were universally acknowledged as not only lacking in discipline or enforcement of remorse, but as being fun. One punishment involved him releasing every snitch the school owned, resulting in chaos of not only the punished party, but nearly every third year Hufflepuff screaming and laughing while chasing a litany of golden orbs around the courtyard on broomsticks, blowing air up other house’s robes and sending papers scattering everywhere. Another involved the wrong doers having to answer riddles by a variety of rambunctious and mischievous toadstools and then wrestling a Hyacinth Bean Vine that was keen on tickling to find seeds Professor Crowley had unscrupulously “misplaced”. Most importantly, Hufflepuffs were excellent finders, and usually loved a good scavenger hunt, Anthony never forgot this while planning his “punishments”, and he had been scolded by the headmistress on many an occasion for being too lax. Luckily, playing ignorant was nearly second nature to him after his own schooling experience at Hogwarts.

“Now, my office is the room nearest the greenhouses, ground floor. If I’m not teaching, I’ll be there. If not there, check the library,” If he wasn’t very much mistaken, a grin of knowing looked over Fawley’s face. Blishwick gazed at him as if he held the moon on a string, “I’m sure you’ve been filled in, but your house here, it’s like your family. Even I was a first year once- unbelievable I know.”

A small fit of giggles spread out amongst the first years.

“And as such, if you need to talk to someone, just find me or your prefects. Don’t leave your dormitories past nine on school nights. If you need me, boys fetch Fawley, girls fetch Blishwick. In-betweens and others, let me know if you have issues staying with boys and girls.”

Some looked confused at this, some looked surprised. Fawley and Blishwick gave nothing but a determined and attentive reaction. Crowley had always stayed with the boys in his school years, but, as every student of every other year knew, he was definitively genderfluid, and unashamed of being such.

“Let’s have a good year, yeah?”

Many of the first years shuffled their feet. Their professor hopped down, holding both his arms high to his sides. “Yeah?” he pressed.

His first years seemed to relax, many smiling, “Yeah!”

He felt a bit of an urge to try harder when the first boy he saw, Warlock, looked downcast and troubled.

“That’s more like it, now get out there and cause some trouble. Make sure to steal food from the kitchens at night. Give some people the wrong password so they’ll be doused in butterbeer, all that Jazz.”

The boy looked up at him, and Crowley pulled down his glasses to wink, earning a slightly reconciled smile in turn. With a spackle of giggling and whooping, the prefects led their charges away, towards the kitchens and their ground-floor dormitory. Crowley rarely went in there now, wishing to give the students their safe place away from prying ears, but he did so deeply miss the warm, underground room with its high windows, comfortable chairs, soft blankets, endless tap of butterbeer, and happy houseplants living on tall shelves atop an endless supply of fairytales of dedication, hard work, and loyalty. It was home. And he hoped they thought so too.

He felt a bit of a happy buzz only gained by earning more family members as he walked towards his office, a knowing nod thrown to Professor Device, who had a smile on her own face betraying a similar feeling. His feet carried him instinctively towards the greenhouses. He did a final run through each. Most of the plants were young, he had only arrived a few days before, but the older ones had been tended to by the summer staff. He hissed at the few ignorant who had relaxed in his absence, whispering threats of tearing them up and planting their children in their soiled remains. Like magic, they fixed their errs, shaking until Crowley allowed them the slimmest smile of satisfaction. Last, he checked the precious Whomping Willow.

“LOOK AT YOU!” he shouted, leaning back to take in the full glory of the Willow with his arms held wide at his sides, “STILL SWINGING LIKE ANYTHING”. A gigantic grin was plastered on his face, and the willow groaned, leaning over so it’s longest branches could extend themselves to Crowley. He rubbed them happily, remembering climbing its branches as a young teen and his professors screaming at him in awe and panic from afar. Though he would never admit it, his heart felt full. His students were here, his plants were here, his oldest friends were here, _Azira_ was here. How could he wish to be anywhere else?

With a bit of a flourish, he threw the last (and the majority of) the compost that had been stocking up over the summer around the willow’s roots, watching it bristle with happiness and soak in the sludge like it hadn’t in the long months without him.

Briefly, he stopped in his office to adjust his hair that was currently sticking straight up as though he’d blown up a potion. He righted his vest beneath his cloak, smoothed his shirt, and was off for his first meeting with Azira in four painstakingly long months.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Azira catch up after their summer apart. The first years get a glimpse into the world of Herbology and their professor's erratic personality.

The sharp clack of heeled boots echoed off the stone walls of the castle as Crowley strutted through its soaring archways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of the tight black jeans beneath his robes. As pureblood as he was, he’d always had a bit of a penchant for muggle aesthetics. 

Despite the temptation to stop presenting itself every few meters, he walked with unyielding purpose in his step. The first day back at school always made him feel like a chocolate frog waiting in its box, with several hands knowing exactly where to find him and eager to grab him.

“Hello, Professor Crowley!” cheered a few Ravenclaw fourth year girls, apparently ecstatic to see him. 

“You lot comin’ back from the library _ already _? Now how much more Ravenclaw can you get? Poster children, you are,” he teased dubiously as he passed them.

“You know it, Professor Crowley,” one of the girls managed back through their proud giggles. 

“Good summer in the Amazon, Professor Crowley?” asked a Slytherin sixth year passing him not even a few moments later. 

“Ohhhhh yeaaaah, wrestled a 20-foot Anaconnnnda,” he crooned coolly. His pace didn’t slow as the student nearly tripped over themself by stopping in their tracks, turning to stare and decipher if the academic could possibly be serious before being bustled away by oncoming students. 

The floating staircase had just begun its departure. Not feeling particularly patient to see his colleague, Crowley used his long legs to his advantage, getting in a few lunging strides before jumping the meter gap to the bottom step and letting out a “whoop! Don’t try that at home, kids- or here, Madame Pomfrey’ll have my head.” 

“Sweet air! We wouldn’t dream of tattling, Teach,” grinned one of Crowley’s favorite Gryffindor third years. The other several students on the staircase let out laughs and whoops of agreement. It paid to be a popular professor.

“You kidding? I’m pretty sure the old bat has half these dusty old motel-art geezers-“ he was interrupted by an affronted throat-clearing from a painted woman in a collar so large it looked as if it was about to consume her head, “er- that is- ehhh, th- erm, _ priceless masterpieces _, practicing espionage for her.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a floating blue specter and groaned internally. The last thing he needed was the poltergeist following him the whole way to the library with sing-song shouts of _ Where’s Creepy Crawly slithering off to? Trying to snog his sweetheart? Not so sneaky! _

“Right, shove over, would you,” he mumbled, squeezing past the students so he could be the first one off, again jumping a gap before the staircase had even stopped moving and slipping immediately into the hallway leading to the library. 

With only a happy few other interruptions from students barring him from his destination, he found himself facing the library doors and the list of rules written in a meticulous, giant font upon it.

  1. **Absolutely NO food or drink permitted while in the library.**
  2. **Excessive socializing will not be tolerated. It distracts students attempting to study. Go elsewhere.**
  3. **Only appropriate books for each year will be available for check out requests.**
  4. **The books are NOT coasters.**
  5. **They are not projectiles, either.**
  6. **Admittance to the Restricted Section is STRICTLY PROHIBITED.**
  7. **Students may ONLY check out a book from the Restricted Section with a note of authorization from a professor.**
  8. **Don’t attempt to forge a note of authorization from a professor. You’re not that clever. Honestly.**
  9. **Damage of a checked-out book will result in loss of check-out privileges.**
  10. **As will if I catch checked-out books out in the Great Hall.**
  11. **Book check-out requests will be considered only within the following times:**

**Monday- after class and before curfew, unless I’m out or otherwise occupied**  
** ** **  
** **Tuesday and Thursday- I often have business to attend to, but you may try 6-8 PM ****  
** (6-8 PM was when supper was served, ensuring no requests would be confirmed at this time)  
  
**Wednesday and Friday- Re-shelving Days, I will either get to it between rounds, or I will not****  
** **  
** **Saturday- Requests will start being taken as late as 1 PM, though I have been known to accept them as early as 8 AM. Request submission will end at 7 PM, though on occasion I end submissions at 2 PM to see to other tasks****  
** **  
****Sundays- see Saturdays**

12\. **No**** Question is a bad Question. Ask away!**

The bit about projectiles was new, Crowley wondered what happened there. 

He tried for the door- it was locked. The tall wizard paused briefly to check his pocket-watch, reading it only as 8:30 when curfew wasn’t until 9. He raised an amused eyebrow. From his robes he drew his 13-inch applewood wand, swishing it at the lock.

“_ Alohomora.” _

No luck. Of course, Azira was smart enough to have enchanted the door to nullify the charm. Crowley leaned back, looking down the hallway for a clear opening before feeling his skin shift into smooth scales, sides sinking in and his world-view shrinking downwards as he transformed into a snake and slipped easily under the door. 

The smell of old books, the cocoa Azira was making, and perhaps a whiff of the other man’s cologne all hit Crowley at once like a troll’s club made entirely out of sentimentality and memories. Instantly he remembered a trick he’d played on the Ravenclaws here in his third year, where every book they opened was sucked smack-up against their noses. It stuck a touch too well and they’d had to go to the infirmary to get the books removed. He had a certain two Weasley’s to thank for helping him mastermind that one. He snickered aloud to himself at the recollection.

“Really?” came Azira’s voice from behind a towering shelf, “It’s the first day! Haven’t you anything better to do than break into the library? We’re not accepting check-out requests today and it’s nearly curfew! Classes start tomorrow, shouldn’t you be getting a good night’s res-” His well-prepared scolding came to cease as he rounded the corner, a stack of books towering high in his arms, and witnessed his colleague transforming back into a human form that hosted an amused grin, eyebrows raised well above his glasses.

“Well _ hello _ , Professor Fell,” Crowley waggled his brows flirtatiously, draping himself seductively on the library’s front desk, “I have a _ load _ of check-out requests for you.”

“Oh, Crowley!” Azira expressed, seeming so pleasantly surprised to see his friend it could be mistaken whether or not he was the one to invite him in the first place, “Do make sure the door is locked behind you, won’t you, My Dear?” 

Anthony nodded as if they both didn’t know the door was already locked. He cleared his throat a bit to shrug off the heat of what those words could have implied, if the situation was a bit different. He backtracked his own path, ensuring the door was locked behind him before slithering after Azira, who was still talking to him despite having walked off to his office a few moments since. 

“You know, Dear Boy, I was always quite envious of that skill of yours. I dreamed of being an animagus when I was younger. I was so determined to study my way into the ability- I had few other extra-curricular interests from third to fifth year. I nearly risked failing my OWLs after staying up a week straight!” 

Crowley padded into the warm office behind the library desk, attempting not to let the feeling of shock he felt at the fact that _ Azira had been envious of him _ betray itself on his face. Not only that, he could do something Azira couldn’t. If someone had bet him on that yesterday he’d have sworn to find Nicolas Flamel’s grave, dig the old bastard up, and kiss him silly if they proved him wrong. The red-head threw away his sarcastic speech about the blonde even implying he could have failed the OWLs even if he tried his best- or, worst, rather. 

“A- annnn- and you just _ gave up _?” Crowley pressed, his inflection flinging itself wildly as he baulked. 

A gaze of annoyance only made him grin as Azira stood from where he’d retrieved their bottle of wine. 

“Well, there’s a world of knowledge out there, Crowley, I would be remiss to lose so many learning opportunities simply to hyper fixate on one skill. How long did it take you?” 

He often asked questions such as these, almost implying they hadn’t gone to school with each other or shared the exact same house, only a couple years apart in age. Crowley had long since realized Azira didn’t have a single inkling of memory with him in it. 

“Ah, learned how to do it pretty young, to be _ sneaky _. Comes along with the blessed family curse, you know,” he raised his sunglasses to set atop his head, as if emphasizing his point with the presence of his eyes. He gladly accepted the glass Azira offered him, instinctively drinking from it with eagerness. After the first draw of the drink, he folded his glasses and set them on the edge of the desk. 

Azira didn’t mean to smile, he knew it was a sensitive topic for Crowley, but still it was always nice to see those golden eyes. He only ever did when it was just the two of them, sharing a drink and casual conversation. It meant something greater, provided a sense of intimacy that was only shared with Azira, and he treasured that vulnerability.

“Well, you are quite clever.”

Crowley choked on his wine, passing it off as grumbling and shoving the glass further into his face as if it would hide the heat creeping up his cheeks. He immediately finished his drink, shoving the empty dishware out for another glass. “How was your Summer Book Hunting- find anything good?” he redirected.

The Herbology professor welcomed himself to the cozy armchair across Azira, basking in the heat from the fireplace and swinging a leg over the arm of the chair to bring a foot closer to the flames. He sat on the other foot, one arm slung over the back of his seat with the other extended out to Azira expectantly. Overall, he appeared much too tall and lanky for the short, fat armchair.

“Oh quite!” Azira jumped at the bait, pouring Crowley a second glass and immediately delving furiously into his findings, “I found a _ first edition _ of the German ‘Tales of Beedle the Bard’ in Goslar. Oh! And I met the kindest gentleman in a pub in Northern Finland who’s spent his last few years chronicling the locations of long lost first editions and their inflations against the galleon. He built quite his own collection, and could you believe that he was kind enough to sell me not only his list of findings but also a mint-condition first print of The Invisible Book of Invisibility!”

Crowley didn’t know whether to be annoyed or endeared at how easily the object of his affections was conned. He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again, “And this bloke, did he have any kind of… oh I don’t know, credentials or business associations he could prove?”

“Oh honestly, My Dear, you must learn to be more trusting of strangers- And then in the Magical Library of Paris- I do hope you’d go with me next time, my French leaves so much to be desired- I found a whole collection of compilations I didn’t even know existed of Adalbert Waffling’s earliest journals. I offered nearly my whole years salary for it and the owner simply refused to budge! Oh, he did let me look at it for quite a long time, however. Quite Kind. It’d never even been published; can you believe that?”

Crowley could believe it quite easily, “Ah, good old Adalbert holding out on us, eh?”

“You can’t even imagine, Anthony! The theories that haven’t even made it into later biographies and published journals is insurmountable! Not to mention positively criminal! You know he was one of the first magical theoreticians to even _ propose _the idea that there’s a trans-dimensional effect of the casting of charms when they’re cross-analyzed with—oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve lost my manners. How was your trip to the Amazon? Exciting, I’m sure!” he redirected, realizing Crowley’s summer adventures must have been much livelier than his own. 

For Azira to stop mid-rant to inquire about _ Crowley _ ’s summer? Well, it was enough to make his heart flutter in his chest. He did his best to shove the fluttering right back down before grinning at his friend- it was his own turn to tangent about his passions, “Well. Entirely more of an adventure than I expected. I m- meee- _ mean _ I thought I’d get by just fine as a snake but there are- well, much _ bigger _ snakes in the Amazon. Giant buggers, really. Nearly got eaten. Saw some of the most fascinating magic wildlife, though, would make old Newt Scamander green with envy, I’d bet. And the plan- the PLANTS, Azira! Beautiful! Bigger and greener than anything! If I could figure out how to make my own plants grow like _ that _ I would put every other Herbologist in the whole of damned Europe to utter shame. Did bring back plenty of soil samples, that ought to make some amount of difference. Been looking up loads of charms to emulate the ecosystem--” 

The librarian listened to him ramble on with the patience of a saint and the genuine interest of a person listening to someone they care very deeply for expressing a great passion. When Crowley finally paused for a great gasp of air and swung the base of his glass around rudely as a silent request for a third pour, Azira took it from him delicately, smiling comfortably as he refilled it. “And did you find what you were looking for- the Piper obliviscatur, was it?” he looked up at Crowley’s face and immediately felt the pang of guilt of realizing he’d mis-stepped. So far in fact, Crowley’s sunglasses had seemingly teleported to his face from where he’d safely folded them on the desk earlier, creating an emotional barrier of distance. The longer Crowley took to find the object his research thesis relied on, the more sensitive the topic became. Azira still didn’t know quite why discussing his research was so sensitive or what exactly Crowley was hoping to find, as Crowley didn’t like discussing the nature of his thesis with others, even Azira, but the librarian had long since become aware there were personal stakes involved for the other wizard.

Crowley took the glass, somewhat half-heartedly, and took a rather large swig that drained half of it before replying, “No. Well- yes. Took the first two months of holiday to find just one, managed to cultivate just a couple more the next month. Finally ran some early tests while I was in Bolivia. Couldn’t get the right test scenarios. The Academics that had promised to do the study with me fell through. Test subjects weren’t nearly varied enough. Seemed promising enough, couldn’t wait to get it back here and test it out under more stable conditions. Every single plant died on the trip back. It’s properties only sustain when it’s fresh. Won’t grow here, either, not with all the charms in the world. Nooo- n- _ now _ I’m thinking the plant itself wouldn’t do to serve its purpose when it’s so incredibly fragile. I’ll have to move on to the next prospect. Waste of a summer really.” 

“Oh Crowley,” Azira empathized, expression putting on display the way his heart was clenching in his chest, “I really am so very sorry, Dear Boy. I know how very much you were banking on that plant proving fruitful.” He sat forward in his chair, gapping the distance between them and taking the other professor’s hand gingerly in his own. There were a couple moments that passed between them where they sat that way, their hands clasped in one anothers’. Crowley marveled at how Azira’s soft hand that almost only certainly had only touched smooth books felt in contrast to his own calloused hands that had spent years working in gardens. Their intense gaze was only separated by the thin smoked glass shielding Crowley’s cursed eyes. A kind of magic sparked between them, and Crowley forgot to breathe. He looked at the way Azira’s eyebrows came together just the smallest bit when he wore that expression of concern, how one corner of his mouth turned upright as if specifically to cradle Crowley’s discomfort, how his intelligent blue eyes searched his as if they could pierce right through the glass blocking them from their objects of focus. Azira passed the bright red complexion of his companion off as distress and perhaps some embarrassment at the admission of vulnerability. 

A knock at the door nearly sent Crowley jumping out of his skin, his hand flying back toward him and his black nails digging into the cushion of the armrests. 

“WHAT?” he spat, baring his teeth and immediately feeling remorseful as he turned to see the male seventh-year Hufflepuff prefect, Harry (a name that had become wildly popular following 1998) Rubis, his skin flushed and unable to decide if it should turn red from embarrassment or white from terror. The younger years sometimes inquired if it was possible to actually make Professor Crowley angry- the older ones always pressed that it was better to not attempt, “Ehem… that is… something you need, Rubis?” He didn’t dare look at the gaze of disapproval he knew Azira wore. 

“Ye- I- um… sorry, professor,” he said sheepishly, “I told Filch I needed you and he unlocked the door.” 

“That’s alright then, first years okay?” 

“Yeah! They’re alright- I mean, some of them were crying but we prefects took care of that.”

“Right,” Crowley approached casually, slowly—apologetically, and clasped the boy on the shoulder, “What’s wrong, then?” 

“Third year boys got into a fight, Borealis gave Twigs a bloody nose,” he relayed, a little more relaxed but still moderately traumatized. 

“What the bloody hell for?” Crowley asked. The first day? Really. The first day and already he had to assign detention and play Mean-Head-of-House-Professor. 

Azira held himself back from jumping into Crowley’s thoughts with a, ‘You _ did _ sign up for this, Dear Boy’. 

“Er…. argument over…. bed…… claims….,” Rubis’s voice grew more mumbled with each word, as if afraid his professor would explode at him yet again. 

“To Hell with it,” Crowley swore, sighing and throwing Azira a pitiful expression. 

“Now, now, duty calls,” Azira enforced, standing to usher the Hufflepuff pair out. 

“Another time?” Crowley asked, feeling quite like a kicked dog. 

“Naturally,” Azira promised with a reassuring smile, making sure the door was locked after them with a couple extra charms thrown on top this time around. 

* * *

Crowley stood on the stool in the middle of Greenhouse One with a quill between his teeth, hands tying up half of his now shoulder-length hair (he’d used a hair-growth potion- figured he could afford to be more vain now that he wasn’t in the middle of the Amazon) into a sloppy bun behind his head. He counted the amount of mandrake roots, bags of soil, gardening tools, and fresh pots to assure there was enough for each Hufflepuff and Gryffindor first year student as he did so. Sure, when he was their age this task would never be given to first years, but since Crowley had taken over the Herbology department he liked to tempt new students into the topic using- well, the _ mayhem _ that the subject had the potential for as an appeal. Besides, while McGonagall had her doubts at first, 10 years of Crowley’s strange teaching style had proved safe enough for the students, for whom he was always responsible for and quite invested in the safety of. Finding he had set up properly, he leapt from the stool, doing a high kick as he did so and landing in what he found to be a very stylish position indeed (he’d seen a series of mid 20th-century muggle action films with Azira and ever since had fancied fantasizing himself as their heroes). He took the quill out of his mouth, making the final few adjustments to his sorry excuse for a teaching plan before a cacophony of 11-year-old voices filled the greenhouse.

“Bit of pep in your step, please. Take a seat, wherever you’d like, go on,” he droned at them, finding his own black earmuffs in preparation. He righted the items on his station, lined up at the end of all theirs. He made little jokes at the few overly nervous first years near him, who immediately calmed into a state between relaxed and surprised. An extra ten minutes of allowance were inserted to await any first years who got lost on their way.

“Use this time to make sure your earmuffs don’t have any holes. Scream at each other, serenade your neighbor, have some fun with it,” he encouraged with a bored patience. Every new student that entered seemed slightly alarmed at the chaotic scene they stumbled upon. Griffindors and Hufflepuffs laughed wildly as they screamed the most ridiculous of gibberish at one another.

“It’s been one thouuuuusand yearrrrrrrrs,” he groaned, slumped nearly entirely on his table with his head in his hands, the students around him giggling as the last of his pupils moved all too slow to find their places. 

“All right!” he expressed as everyone settled down, raising his leg and pumping his fist with a determined face, “Let’s get this show on the road—”

“Move!—” “Ow—” “Get out of the way, you dolt!” grunted the four students who nearly fell through the front doors.

“Ah- Adam Young And Company,” Crowley popped the ‘P’, his hands set on the table leaning forward, “Fill in, yeah? _ Already _ waited a millennia, would _ hate _ to wait another century”. 

The four grinned, slightly grateful for the leniency. However, they looked a touch bummed and took a bit long as they had to split directions to find empty places. The occupants of the room started snickering as their professor rested his cheek on his fist and tapped the painted nails of his other hand on the table, waiting several moments too long for the group of children to realize they were being waited on and finally shut it. 

“Mandrakes! Heard of them, yeah? Ehhh wh- whooo- who’s ever heard the sound a Mandrake actually makes?”

A spackled few raised their hands, Crowley raised his eyebrow, “Oooh-hoo-hoo not very Honest or Chivalrous of you Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors, eh, little liars? If you’d heard a mandrake, you’d probably know, because you’d be dead. And a bit transparent- a bit. Little pale…..”

This earned a few laughs, and a few embarrassed looks. He forewent noting that these were adolescent mandrakes, and thus wouldn’t kill them, simply knock them out for a few hours.

“Now, who can tell me what kind of plant a mandrake is?”

A Gryffindor boy wearing spectacles shot his hand in the air, Crowley continued looking, he’d never much liked know-it-alls, one exception standing. He saw a few half-raised, unsure hands and his attention was drawn to an introverted, white-haired Gryffindor, “Yes Miss-“

“No Miss”

“Right, your name is?”

“Chalky, Please.”

While curious, Crowley didn’t impose any line of question. He knew what it was like to have people fight the name you’d chosen for yourself, and he had a strict policy against ever being grouped with ‘people’, “Right, Chalky?”

“It’s a root.”

“One point- Gryffindor. And who can tell me what it is often used as medicinally?”

Hands raised more slowly this time, Crowley chose a young, mousy Hufflepuff girl with pigtails this time, adjusting his previous misstep “Your name?”

“Violet B-Be-Bit-Bitterwood.” He grew an immediate fondness, shooting a group that giggled a glare that made them turn stark white and promptly shut them up.

“Yes Miss Bitterwood?”

“It’s used as a sedative and p- pa- pain-ki- pain-killer.”

“Well done, you, Miss Bitterwood, 5 points- Hufflepuff, _ let’s win this house cup, yeah? _ ” he stage-whispered, earning a laugh and cheer from Hufflepuffs and distrustful looks from Gryffindoors before he crouched down, waving his hands, “Ohhh-hoooo, so _ serious _ ! I’m _ fibbin’ _. One point, still well done, you. It’s also useful in several common potions, so we’ll be doing Professor Device a favor and preparing them now so you lot can use ‘em to make ‘exciting’ and ‘exotic’ lip-chapping balms in a few weeks.” The air quotes were practically visible as his voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Now, how about a death-defying experience your first day at Hogwarts, eh? Big strong witches and wizards, you lot, now. ‘Bet Herbology will be boring?’,” he spoke in a nasally, high pitched voice when mimicking them, waving his arms about and wiggling his fingers comically, “’Learning every latin name of every plant, writing on the history of the evolution of me aunt’s ferns’, eh? Not bloody well in my class. Now, these mandrakes are adolescent, they’re outgrowing their current pots and need to be repotted. Repotting is a fundamental part of herbology, but the mandrake bit adds an exciting little kick. Now, let me give a demonstration. Earmuffs on.” 

Most of the students watched attentively, whether from a genuine interest in the lesson, or from curiosity of what their strange professor would do next. Crowley near screamed the instructions as he provided a step-by-step guide, anchoring a hand and a foot on the tabletop as he wrestled the writhing mandrake into its new pot.

“Right, now, all of you. I’ll make my rounds, give a shout- er- probably a tap, if you need some assistance.” He walked around the arrangement of work benches, nearly wincing when the young Pippin Galadriel Moonchild (“_ Pepper,” _ she sassed in correction when Crowley insisted on using the entirety of her name) tried to pull the Mandrake from the tips of its roots instead of the base. He showed her the proper technique, and she followed along marvelously. 

Another several minutes followed with Crowley answering questions and directing on techniques, explaining why they were doing things in the fashion that they were and what the nature of the soil was. His attention turned to a timid tap on his arm, and he found himself face to face with the Dowling boy. He followed him wordlessly to his station, finding him and the Gryffindor boy Adam Young working together. 

“It’s too fat!” Young cried.

“WHA?” Crowley shouted, straining to hear.

“It won’t stop squirmin’!” Warlock mimicked the dramatic wiggling movements of the mandrake. Young joined in.

Crowley watched the little dance in utmost amusement, examined the mandrake thoroughly, and nodded firmly in encouragement, “MAKE IT STOP.”

“WHA?” Young and Dowling shouted back, in tandem.

“MAKE. IT. STOP!” 

“HOW??” the two boys looked at each other in equal confusion.

Crowley wildly wound his arm in exasperation, signaling for them to hand it over. They did so. Crowley got into a ready position, knees bent, back hunched, neck straight forward. He raised his glasses so he was eye to eye with the plant, ignored his two students’ gaping, took a harsh intake of breath, and soul-piercing enough to strike fear into the darkest wizard’s heart, put on a hideous scowl and shrieked, “SHUT ITTTTTT!!!!” 

The entire greenhouse fell quiet- the mandrakes, the children, the bacterium. They all stared at him in terror for a solid 15 seconds.

“There you go, as you were!” he said, pleased, dropping his glasses back into place and thrusting the creature back towards the boys. Warlock took the creature, in utter shock. Crowley turned away, eagerly drifting about to find the next students that needed assistance. 

As he was starting to discuss the larger and more menacing cousins of the Mandrake, putting his students in awe of some of the simplest living things the Magical World hid away, Adam Young turned to Warlock Dowling, giving him a toothy grin, “This is gonna be a wicked year.” 

Timidly, with agreement and in the hope that he'd made a new friend, Warlock grinned back, “Wicked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for the warm reception of the first chapter! I certainly can't promise the updates will always be this fast, but they shouldn't ever be more than a week apart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Crowley, Device, and Fell have an early morning gossip session discussing some of the other faculty. Azira and Anthony console a certain distraught first year Hufflepuff. Greenhouse 1 is host to an unwelcome infiltration.

Icey dew encased every green blade of grass on the castle grounds. No matter how thick one’s socks or how high their shoes, it was the kind of weather that soaked one’s feet to the bone anyways. A brisk chill was in the air, not quite cold enough to turn the hot breaths of those who trudged through the groggy morning visible. However, sharp winds rolled off the surface of the lake, billowing the leaves of the trees that called Hogwarts their home and pinkening the cheeks of the poor souls who had to leave the warmth of their cozy four-poster beds and heated rooms. September was over halfway past, and as such was sweeping Hogwarts over with its Autumn trappings. 

_ Sod September _, a certain Herbology professor stewed in misery. The way he stalked over the grounds was practically physical comedy. He hunched over himself, arms hugging his torso tight. His face was shoved as low into his thick red scarf as he could possibly get it, and he moved at nearly running pace despite only stepping with his tip toes to avoid ruining his designer shoes. The morning chores in the greenhouse were done (with help from a couple very dedicated herbology students that were looking for more learning opportunities), and Crowley couldn’t make it to his office fast enough.

“Fuck it’s cold, fuck it’s cold, fuck it’s so bloody fucking cold,” Crowley hissed, his hands fumbling over his keys and dropping them twice before he finally managed to unlock the heavy wooden door. He leapt inside so fast his movement was hardly registerable. 

“_ Incendio _,” he wasted no time in starting up the modest hearth in the small office, bunching up his cloak around him and sitting at his desk. He flicked his wand at the record player in the corner, which promptly began playing the Weird Sisters’ Best Hits. The wizard rustled around the bottom right drawer of his desk, enchanted with an extension charm, cursing as he knocked over several bottles of liquor, and pulled out two separate black knit blankets. One was pulled over his shoulders, serving as a second cape, and the other was spread over his lap. He didn’t bother taking off his scarf- partially because the charmed fabric retained the warmth against his face and neck all too well but mostly because Azira had knit it for him the Christmas prior.

For several moments, the wizard simply rested his head on the desk, unable to function before warming up properly. It was only 7 AM. The Herbologist had planned on going to breakfast, and then, only when finishing his chores, had heard his students excitedly chattering about how the announcement for the Dueling Club would be this morning. Most things were too much for Crowley before 9 AM, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s smug bastard face and voice were near the top of the list. Breakfast wasn’t that important to him anyway, though he would miss Azira’s bright and shining morning smile. The man hardly slept- never needed to. Crowley never understood it.

He snoozed for nearly an hour before a loud smack struck the window, followed by an eardrum-decimating screech, and the lanky figure’s soul nearly left his body. He raised his head to glare at Twit.

The Eastern Screech Owl pecked impatiently at his window, eyes narrowed at his master. Its owner begrudgingly stood, shuffling to the window and sliding the pane upward to allow the owl to fly in, drop the mail rudely in the middle of Crowley’s cold stone floor, and land on its perch near the desk. The source of its irritation was most likely its inability to find Crowley in the Great Hall, first.

“Ghhhhhhhh,” Crowley growled, “Lovely. Thanks, Twit.” He made a great show of dramatically leaning down to gather each individual piece of mail, making eye contact with the owl the entire time. The bird looked at him combatively, bustling its brilliant red feathers and staring at him without a lick of trust. 

Not once, not ever, had Crowley gotten along with non-reptilian animals. He’d never had a pet as a student, and his rare attempts to bond with his peers’ cats or owls had left him turning up to class with gruesome battle scars marring his face. Additionally, he’d been, perhaps, the only Hufflepuff in history to barely pass Care of Magical Creatures (and that was only because Hagrid had taken pity on him). However, with all the research he did it simply made much more sense to have his own owl. So, he’d gotten Twit. 

“Such a feisty little thing,” the painting of Professor Sprout commented from the wall, “Perhaps you should give him more treats.” Crowley ignored her, he was not a fan of the array of paintings of previous Herbology professors lining his office, but after getting very drunk and trying very hard to tear them off the wall, he’d discovered they were enchanted to stay there. The paintings had made him pay for it, inviting all their friends and throwing boisterous parties in their frames as he tried to do research. After he threatened to cut them out of their frames, they reached an armistice.

After nestling back under his blankets, he went through his mail. The Prophet was more of a tabloid today, though Crowley did read an article about a witch who had disappeared after flying her broomstick through the Bermuda Triangle in 1961 and found herself in the cheese section of an American muggle establishment called “Whole Foods” appearing ten years younger, just recently. Next, he went through his personal mail. The shipment composed of a letter from Cordelia Heller, an invitation from HERB (Herbologists of Europe Research Bureau) requesting an interview to discuss his research project, and finally a response from Neville Longbottom, an old classmate and a valuable Herbology colleague. Crowley carefully set the letter from Cordelia near a picture of 14-year old Crowley and Valencia Heller, who were currently laughing and screaming while dancing around a magical firework they had accidentally set off on themselves in Cordelia’s garden, so he’d remember to respond. He wasted no time opening the letter from Neville, using a long pinky fingernail to tear the paper of the envelope. 

_ A.J.C, _

_ I hope you’re doing well, it’s jolly good to hear from you! I’ve been in touch with my colleagues in Bolivia and found some exciting news about your research in the Amazon. While it didn’t offer the results we were looking for, I’ve learned that after your return to Scotland, delayed test results proved effective in treating dementia! I know this isn’t quite the victory you were looking for, but it is a step in the right direction. We’re making ground, Anthony. We’re helping. _

_ I’ve examined my own notes and found a few other genuses of cognition-altering herbs that I think are worth us looking into- _

Crowley jumped yet again as there was a tapping on the door. 

“Wot?” he barked shortly. Morning Crowley was not the finest form of Crowley. 

The door swung open, a tall, dark-complexioned, brunette woman with black eyes rose her eyebrow and entered, holding the door open as a slightly-less-cheery-than-usual man with white curls came in with two steaming mugs. 

“Thought you might like something warm to drink, Dear Boy,” Azira chirped to the best of his ability, holding the steaming cup of black coffee out for the exhausted figure bundled up behind the desk.

“You really are an angel, you know that?” Crowley asked, taking the cup gratefully and sipping eagerly at the hot sludge. He fished around in the drawer again for some bailey’s, pouring in a generous amount.

“Crowley, you do know it’s only 12⁰ C, right?” Anathema asked, gazing with a brow raised over her glasses at the heap of knit yarn that was her friend. She closed the door behind the librarian and plopped herself down in one of the two chairs opposite Crowley’s desk. Twit bristled on his perch, moving back and forth impatiently. Not wishing to disappoint, Azira made his way to the perch, giving him a treat and softly brushing the feathers on Twit’s neck. The owl leaned into it, hooting cheerfully. 

“_ Bloody cold, _” Crowley hissed in dissent, “How bad was it?”

“Now, Anthony, we didn’t come here to gossip. We were simply worried when you didn’t show up for breakfast,” Azira insisted, turning his attention to his friend and not noticing Twit reaching his foot out as far as he could, trying to grab his hand for more pets.

“Scale of one-to-ten, how obnoxious was Professor Gabriel Fuckbody?” 

“_ Good _body, you don’t want students catching onto that and it coming back to you, my dear.”

“One-to-ten.”

“...Eleven,” Azira sighed in defeat, making his way to the free chair beside Anathema and sitting down with impeccable posture, “He kept going on about- well-“

“’You never know who’s a Death Eater these days, there are plenty of relations left from the war. They might even be lurking in this very school- in the shadows- or in the _ Greenhouses _,’ blah bleh blarrrrgh,” Crowley mocked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and doing his damndest not to display the depth of his irritation.

“Well- yes,” the librarian admitted, “But who’s really listened to him so far? Just keep your distance and mind your manners.”

“My _manners_ are _bloody well_ _impeccable_, Angel. He’s the one coming after _me_,” the Herbologist grumbled, not realizing the irony of his language while feeling so provoked.

“Of course- you’ve been very civil, my dear. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.” Azira countered, flustered by Crowley’s poor mood.

“Come on, Anthony, we all know who the student’s favorite professor is. It’s not me, and it’s _ certainly _ not Goodbody…. _ Or Trelawney _,” Anathema muttered the last bit under her breath.

Finally, for the first moment of this grey, uninspiring day, Crowley cracked a smile, allowing just a bit of light to shine through.

“What’d the old bat do this time?”

“Ugh, you should have _ heard her _, Crowley!” the witch burst open like floodgates, “She had the audacity to try to tell ME that she’d seen my destiny! ‘Do be careful, Dear’, she says to me, ‘I see the Grimm in your future. Don’t dare to rely on the blood relations of ages past to keep you safe and ensure good fortune.’ Can you believe that? What a complete fraud! How dare she try to dismiss the word of Agnes. I have no idea why McGonagall keeps entertaining her! I should have had that Divination position years ago! But ‘I’m sorry, Professor Device’, ‘Subjects are chosen by staff seniority and experience, Professor Device’. Keeping score, how many prophecies of mine have come true in comparison to hers?”

“Loads,” Crowley humored her, thinking about what a good idea the bailey’s had been.

“That’s right! Thank Merlin I didn’t ever have to be her student. I have no idea how the two of you did it” the American snapped back.

“With _ much _ amusement. Talk about gullible, she’s the easiest professor to mess with. Fifth year, Heller and I couldn’t stand her going on and on about floating orbs, I mean there are _ actual ghosts _ here. So, we’re on our best behavior all class, right? But what Trelawney doesn’t know-“

Device narrowed her gaze, ignoring Crowley’s stories of childhood shenanigans to observe Azira sipping at his cocoa while staring into the ceiling, declining to comment. “Alright, come out with it, Professor Fell.” Crowley looked entirely put out at the interruption. He was just getting to the good bit where they doused snidgets in baby powder.

“Whatever do you mean?” Azira feigned innocence (he was quite good at it, Crowley thought).

“You know what I mean,” the potions professor responded sourly.

“Oh, you know I don’t mean to upset you, my dear. It’s just that our dear Professor Trelawney is aging up, starting to move onto other things. I do think your chance will come soon enough. In the meantime, your six years here has been the longest Hogwarts has gone with a single Potions professor in twenty years, and you were hired at the incredibly young age of twenty-two! That’s nothing to turn your nose up at. You’re quite skilled, Anathema,” he encouraged.

She sighed, submitting to the praise, “I suppose so, it’s just so hard to be patient. I never had any premonitions about waiting this long, I just saw I would get there and went for it.”

The clocktower chimed 8:30 AM, and Anathema shot upright, “Ah, hex it, I still need to set up for my third years. By the way- have you been keeping an eye on Twigs? I think he’s being bullied.”

“Hey, who’s Head of Hufflepuff, here?” Crowley chided indignantly, feeling aggrieved by the doubt, “It’s under control. Dirt about Borealis is spreading as we speak.”

This earned a “honestly, Anthony” from Azira and a loud laugh from Anathema. 

“As long as it works, who am I to question your methods?” Anathema mused, “Now then, off I go. Don’t forget to get me that aloe vera and bloodroot in the next couple days.” 

She made her exit, her deep green velvet robe fluttering about her green tartan dress as she did so. 

“So, will you be helping with Dueling Club?” Crowley asked his remaining company, out of both intrigue and a touch of spite as he sipped his hot, bitter beverage.

“Most likely. Someone needs to take Gabriel down a notch, yes?” he smiled reassuringly at his grumpy colleague.

Crowley attempted to frown but grinned despite himself. He’d always thought Azira was too soft on Goodbody- this was apparently on account of his mother’s family and Gabriel’s father’s family being close friends for decades. However, he couldn’t deny that Azira’s savvy with Battle Magic could embarrass even the prideful Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. 

“I suppose so,” he hummed, stretching out both ‘o’s thoughtfully, “I’d prefer if you kicked the high horse out from under him all together. Just- do me a favor, Angel, don’t go easy on him.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Dear Boy,” Azira expressed, smiling brightly. Crowley had almost entirely got over the anxiety of living with his family reputation, but it didn’t hurt for his friends to reinforce their solidarity. “Now, I’m sure you must set up for your class, but my dear, you look positively freezing.”

“_ Focillo _,” the shorter professor enunciated clearly, flourishing his 10 ½ inch Pear Wand in Crowley’s direction.

The Head of Hufflepuff felt a great surge of heat fill him, though only partially from the warming spell itself. 

“Well then, off I go to open the library! Do have a good day, Crowley.”

Azira took his leave, but the warmth remained.

* * *

It was a lovely afternoon- so lovely that Professor Fell’s rousing book about ancient tribal magics of the arctic tundra went unattended despite being held open in his hand. Instead, his attention was focused on the grounds outside the library window. It was an incredibly warm afternoon for the last lingering days of September. Students were dispersed unevenly across the bright grass, many opting to sit on the shore of the lake as they studied and socialized. The scene was so peaceful it almost calmed Azira’s heart even when he spotted few of the children near the shore with library books (almost, not quite). Even Crowley was outside, showing the second years preparing for quidditch tryouts how to properly swing a Beaters’ club. Azira had never much cared for quidditch, but his beloved companion Cedric had been captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, so he’d gone to every match anyway. Thus, Azira’s few memories of Crowley did include the lanky red head and his partner-in-crime Valencia Heller as formidable Beaters. 

He smiled down at the scene, watching Crowley hold his hand up high and the second year in his company desperately trying to high five him before the professor crouched down, allowing the girl to smack his hand and then standing upright before she noticed, body splaying outwards in excitement to wholeheartedly congratulate her efforts. Fell had always enjoyed that, how one could practically hear what Crowley was saying just by watching his cartoon-ish body language. To be honest, Azira felt bad for having next to no recollection of Crowley. ‘Crawly’, was his surname when they were in school, he remembered that much. His friend was loathe to be called that now. He also remembered whispers of ‘The heir of Slytherin- that’s _ got _ to be Crawly, have you _ seen _ his eyes?’. Every time Harry Potter wasn’t the scapegoat for something, Crowley had been the next target. 

Azira had never participated in gossip when younger. Looking at his friend now, he wasn’t surprised. He wished he could recall why he’d never taken an interest in Anthony while they were in school together. Sure, he was rough around the edges, crude at times, loud and distracting, _ terribly _mischievous, but he was also one of the most kind-hearted people Azira had ever met in his life. The library hadn’t properly been restored from its former glory after the Battle of Hogwarts until Azira came, it proved too difficult a task for every other librarian that had attempted it, the challenge had been what had gotten him to take the job. The nature of his friendship with Crowley is what had gotten him to stay. At one point he had done the math and realized Crowley had been there twenty years ago, a seventh year student, who had opted to stand up and fight at the Battle of Hogwarts. Not only that, but he’d been the only child of a long-standing, prideful pureblood family dedicated to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The fact that he had participated on behalf of Hogwarts, on behalf of all the muggle-borns and half-bloods, and that he could stay at this school after all that was a testament to his courage, his selflessness, and his dedication to his students. Azira wasn’t sure he would be able to do it, play free of care in the same exact place he had fought for his life decades prior.

Still, Crowley was a puzzle, a conundrum of hidden feelings and secret history. After a year, he called Azira his closest friend, and yet still wouldn’t share his research thesis. He still shut down when the librarian attempted to provide the gentlest compliment, the softest praise. But still there was a presence- a _ need _ for love, for validation, and how could Azira deny giving something that was earned so honestly? 

“Excuse me, Professor Fell?”

Azira was distracted from the view just before Crowley got smacked square in the face with a bludger. 

He turned to the timid fourth year Ravenclaw who requested his attention, “Miss Soulton! How can I help you?”

“Yes, well, I was reading about banishing charms for Charms class, and I saw that in Singapore they use an entirely different spell, almost a ritual, that I’ve never heard of being used here. Why not use the same spell as us? Seems simpler.”

“Ah! Excellent question, Dear Girl! The spell compendium for each country, the mannerisms to achieve them, and the origins of their creation are all just as varied as the cultures themselves.”

“That’s so strange! But it’s to the same effect, isn’t it?”

“Oh, more or less! It’s quite the involved philosophy that involves foreign wizarding societies trying to stand independent from the ripple effects of colonization. I could find several books on the subject for you, and you’re welcome to ask any questions they don’t answer. I’ll do my best to help.”

“I would be so grateful, Professor Fell! This is so interesting!”

“It is, isn’t it?” Azira asked excitedly, spending the next twenty minutes or so helping the girl find the books she was interested in, discussing the theory in detail, and turning cold only when she asked if she could check the books out. “Well, we shall see how far you get. If you don’t get through this material, I suppose I could… _ consider _ granting your request.”

Well aware that this was quite a generous offer on Professor Fell’s behalf, Soulton was on her best behavior.

“Oh, I do wish you taught a class, Professor Fell, I think I learn more from you than anyone!” she insisted, genuine despite her more deliberate goal of buttering Azira up.

“You’re too kind, my dear, I’m truly happy to help,” the librarian mused, leaving the girl to her own devices and ensuring the books that the day’s visitors had retrieved were returned properly. Somewhere near the Giant’s Cuisine Cookbook section he heard what he was sure was a sniffle. Azira tapped his last book with his wand in the Obscure Potions Materials section, allowing it to shelve itself, folding his glasses, and sliding them into his pocket before rounding the corner and growing assuredly nearer the crying. 

Finally, he found the source of the noise, crouching down to peer under an isolated desk. 

“Oh, dear,” he exclaimed gently, seeing a young brown-haired first year wearing Hufflepuff robes crouched in the far corner beneath the furnishing, clutching a cellphone in his hands, “What’s all this about, are you quite alright?”

“I’m--- not--…. I can’t…. it won’t work,” sobbed the boy, clutching the mobile to his chest. 

“Right, come now, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” offered Azira, extending his hand to the young child. 

The boy took it, hiding his face in his professor’s side. The wizard was meticulous in his mission to get him to the office as discreetly as possible, making him a cup of cocoa once they got there successfully. 

“Now, drink this, it’ll help you feel a bit better. Are you having trouble settling in?”

The boy nodded, hiccupping as he took a tiny sip from the mug, “I don’t fit in. I feel so alone.”

Azira nodded in sympathetic understanding, “Have you talked to the prefects about it?”

Averting his glance, the student mumbled, “they’d probably just pin me as a baby….”

“Would you like me to get Professor Crowley up here? I’m sure he could help. He’s not too bad to talk to, truly.” 

The boy sniffled, nodding the tiniest bit and nearly disappearing into the armchair near the fireplace. 

“Right- just one moment,” Azira exited his office, surveying his pick of students before approaching the sixth year Hufflepuff prefect, Hagatha Howler.

“Miss Howler, would you mind running down to the grounds and summoning Professor Crowley? It seems we have a crisis with one of your younger schoolmates.” 

The dark-skinned girl gave a look of concern, standing up almost immediately- of all Hufflepuff prefects, she was the most serious about her appointment. The librarian thought she was well on her way to becoming Head Girl next year, “Of course, Professor Fell! Be back in a jiff.” 

Azira gave her a grateful glance before returning to the shattering boy in his office. The youngster seemed a bit calmer after sipping at the warm chocolate.

“Alright then, I must tell you, Dear Boy, muggle objects such as these don’t work here, in fact they aren’t even allowed on premises. I am… I am afraid I’ll have to confiscate it from you. It could throw off the magical fields.”

The boy looked slightly ashamed, “Yes… but…. My parents don’t write letters. Don’t have owls. Don’t pay attention to any magic stuff… I was just hoping….”.

“Oh yes, it is a difficult transition. When I was a student here, I felt much the same. The absence of phones made me afraid I’d never speak to my family again.”

“Did you?”

“My Dear Boy, of course. Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean it will all fall apart. Your parents love you, you love them, that will transcend any complications with owls or phones or what have you,” he reassured, though undeniably biased. Azira had always been quite close with his family, returned home nearly every holiday, friends in tow, and had gotten at least two letters every week.

The boy sheepishly handed his phone off to the professor and stayed quiet for a while, sniffling and sinking further down in his chair while sipping the hot chocolate. Azira didn’t push him to speak. There were several moments of silence before the door swung open and a tall, flaming-haired, dark-bespectacled figure stood in the doorway, panting for air with a bloody handkerchief pressed up to his nose. He looked a right mess, and the librarian desperately wondered what on earth had happened to his face and why he had evidently sprinted here. Azira watched as Crowley’s gaze glued to him, examining him closely, then jumped to the boy in the chair, and the Herbologist’s shoulders visibly relaxed. When he’d heard Howler’s over eager, ‘Professor Fell sent for you! It’s an emergency in the library!’ his mind had jumped to all sorts of unsavory fears. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Azira said, a cross between sympathetic for the man’s injury and scolding for what he already assumed to be carelessness. 

“Er- quidditch mishap,” he mumbled in explanation before turning his attention back to the boy.

“Dowling,” Crowley acknowledged smoothly as if there wasn’t blood coming out of his nose, walking over and folding one leg under him, the other bent to the side so he was sitting in front of the first year, “What’s got you bothered?”

“Er-,” Azira interrupted awkwardly, “I caught him trying to use this.”

He handed the phone to his colleague and witnessed the most adorable cluelessness on Crowley’s face as he turned it over and over in his hands, jumping much like a startled cat when the screen flashed at him. Warlock gave his Head Professor a less distressed and more amused look, realizing the man had no idea what he was looking at. Azira wore an expression between concern and absolute endearment. How precious could the red-head be?

“Erm…. Eh….. Wha-w-what is this? Some kind of torch?”

“Crowley- It’s a phone.”

“….. Nahhh, you’re fibbin’!” Crowley exclaimed after a moment of considering whether or not he should believe Azira, “I saw a telephone only 15 years ago, looked way different than this. Big. Chunky. Bulky- what’s it called? Wire-…. Ah! C-cooo- coor- cord!” 

Finally, Warlock released a bit of a giggle. Crowley looked up at him, desperately confused.

“I promise you, it’s a phone,” Azira insisted, exasperated, “Technology has advanced quite a bit the last fifteen years, my Dear Boy, and it sounds like the one you saw wasn’t quite with the times, either.” 

The first year laughed yet again at the dumbfounded look on Crowley’s face. The professor was confused, but offered a consolation grin to Warlock anyhow.

“Well then, what’s this about?” he asked, reminding himself to ask how people considered ‘gentle’. Azira’s eyes softened watching the usually harsh, closed-off professor grow so open for the grieving boy. 

“…. I got a letter from my parents…. When I left they said… they said they’d see me at Christmas. Now, they’re already telling me they’re too busy for it. I thought if i called them… Anyway, they just shipped me off here. They didn’t mean to see me at Christmas, they just wanted to _ get rid _of me. I thought it was because I ended up magic, but honestly, I think this would have happened with any boarding school.” 

“Mmmmh,” Crowley thought on the grievance, “That’s rough. Never feels good, does it?”

“What would you know? You don’t know what it’s like for your parents to throw you out. I hear you’re a pureblood.”

Crowley staggered, having to take a moment to organize the thoughts that had just shattered every which way. Azira’s gaze back and forth between the two Hufflepuffs grew more anxious. He knew Crowley’s family situation was sensitive.

“Now, Mr. Dowling--,” he began, but fell quiet when Crowley gave him a little smile and a headshake as if to say, ‘_ I’ve got this _’. 

“So, purebloods are always wanted? I’m afraid that whether wizard or muggle- humanity just isn’t that simple, Dowling.” 

“…. What do you mean?” the boy asked in hesitation.

“Hm….,” Crowley took an extended beat to decide how much he wanted to share, “When I was a first year, a few days after school started, I got a howler.”

Azira supposed that made three things he remembered about Crowley: the rumors, him and Heller as Beaters, and that howler. He remembered it, and he remembered how it had ostracized Crowley for two years after.

“What’s a howler?”

“Pray you _ never find out _,” he pressed, before continuing, “Anyway, my parents had heard I was sorted Hufflepuff. Every single one of my ancestors that’s ever attended Hogwarts was Slytherin, so, they didn’t like that much. They said not to bother coming home- not for winter, not for spring, not for summer, not the next year- never.” 

Warlock looked a bit guilty for the accusation he’d thrown at his professor, “How’d you handle it?”

Crowley took a large inhale, exhaling slowly through his teeth as he cringed at the embarrassing recollection of his younger self, “Not. Very. Well. I assumed if I couldn’t please them, I couldn’t please anybody. That if they didn’t want me, nobody did. I kept to myself for the most part my first couple years. Was angry at everything. Things got easier. I got loads of new perspectives I’d have never known if I’d stayed home with my family. All the wrong ideas I’d been raised with were finally shook loose.” 

Azira had never heard Crowley talk this honestly about being excommunicated from his family, or about unlearning the toxic pureblood Death Eater mentality that had been pounded into his head for eleven years. He scolded himself, the second time today, for not befriending him during their childhood. Anthony must have been so lonely.

“I just don’t…. I’m scared that me being a wizard… I think I’m disappointing my parents,” the Hufflepuff mumbled insecurely.

“Ohhh-hooo, well, let me speak as the reigning king of disappointing your parents, yeah?” Crowley laughed at himself, “Those expectations, they’ll do nothing but weigh you down. You get to choose who you want to be. Wasn’t until third year someone helped me figure that out, but when I did, everything got better. I finally felt safe putting myself out there, stopped being so scared of asking questions, of mucking it up.” 

If Azira wasn’t very much mistaken, Crowley had thrown him quite a meaningful look, so quickly he hadn’t the time to decipher it, or to be sure he truly saw it to begin with.

“So, I just forget having a family?” Warlock asked quietly, pitifully.

“Not in the slightest, boy. Better. You find another one. You _ choose _ one. And in turn for your trust, they’ll stay by you forever. I chose my family that first year, and she’s still here for me to this day. You’ll make friends. You’ll visit them on holiday. You’ll find love. You’ll wonder how you ever got along without the people you build relationships with. You have so much to offer the world. Choose who you want to be, and who's worthy to witness it. In the meantime, hopefully your parents will come around, if not, then they’re missing out, and we’ll gladly appreciate what you have to offer here.”

The blonde couldn’t help but watch their conversation openly, despite feeling like he was eavesdropping. He had no idea where inside himself the other professor found these words. Something about Crowley like this, being so vulnerable, so kind, without any hesitation, it captivated him. It made his heart flutter in the most curious way- something Azira had felt only a few times before with the other man but had never searched into. He supposed it was just the pride of watching a friend overcome their demons.

Warlock thought on this for some time before slowly nodding, looking nervously up at Crowley, “I don’t know how to make friends.”

“Hmmmm,” Crowley thought before grinning mischievously, “I’m going into Diagon Alley this weekend, how about I make a visit to my good friend George Weasley and pick you up something from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. That’ll get you some friends faster than you can think.”

And there it was, Azira marveled, couldn’t expect Crowley to act grown up for too long, though the generosity was endearing.

“What’s Weasles Wizards W- what’s that?” asked Dowling, drying the last of his tears.

“Magic joke shop,” Crowley replied, watching the grin on the boy’s face grow huge and his eyes positively light up. 

“Now, are we done with all this phone nonsense?”

Warlock hesitated a long while before taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, opening them again, and looking at his professor, “I think so.” 

His professor manifested a gigantic grin, “Good, now do you want to go play a game with us, get to know some of your classmates? Find some good contestants for family?” 

After another beat, the boy nodded heartily. Crowley nodded back, “Right. Let’s go get the ever-living shit beat out of us by bludgers.” 

“Language, Professor Crowley,” Azira half-heartedly interjected, pointing his wand at Crowley’s nose. Warlock briefly looked horrified at this. Anthony lowered his hand and shut his eyes tight, groaning even before Professor Fell enunciated, “_ Episkey _”

“Ngk,” said Crowley before turning to the first year, who looked quite amazed by the display of magic and his professor’s repaired nose.

“That was wicked, Professor Fell.”

“Oh than- Oh _ thank you _, Dear Boy, simple charm, really,” Azira said modestly.

Warlock hopped up onto his feet, appearing much invigorated, and then looked off into the distance, as if just realizing something, “What’s a bludger?”

“You poor little bugger, you have so much to learn,” Crowley empathized, having played Quidditch since he was old enough to ride a broomstick, “And you, Angel, care to join us? Just ground-Quidditch, no broomsticks.”

“You know I’m not much of a sportsman, Crowley,” Azira began.

“Ahhhhh, _ come on, _Professor Fell, we always need a referee,” he gave a look that his friend could, surprisingly, only categorize as puppy dog eyes despite the sunglasses- rather impressive, really.

“Pleeeeeeease, Professor Fell!” Warlock echoed, pouting up at Azira with an utterly adorable expression.

“Enough of that,” Azira heaved with a quite put-upon sigh, “Very well.”

Dowling let out a “Yeahhh!” while Crowley let out a “Wahoo!”, shuffling out quickly arm in arm. 

Azira followed after, slowly, watching the hair of the two Hufflepuffs bounce before him, his light blue eyes turned to the ceiling in defeat, “I’m _ soft _.”

* * *

Crowley stood in Greenhouse 4- well, he didn’t stand. He had fallen to his knees, his eyes stinging, staring at the sight of his beautiful plants being devoured by _ more garden gnomes than he had ever seen in his life _. Pots were turned upright, soil was scattered all about the ground. He held the ruins of a planter in one hand, the decimated bloodroot that had been growing in it in the other. 

“Mmmmm, hnnnn- hhh- h-how….. why…..,” he mumbled and stuttered, his heartbeat deafening as it pumped in his ears. This didn’t just _happen_. There were too many. This was too specific a place. Someone put- no- someone _led_ them here. The second years and up knew damned well how to avoid this kind of chaos, how to keep from luring such awful pests, especially into an _enclosed environment_. 

The wizard felt like the lowliest of garbage, even in his expensive robes. Years of cultivating, months of surveying and intimidation and encouragement all gone to _ waste _. He didn’t turn as the first years entered. They all seemed to know to stay silent and remained on the other end of the greenhouse. 

After what seemed like an eon of silence, save for the laughing and chittering of the gnomes and the occasional pot being smashed to smithereens, Crowley rose to his feet and turned around to the confused and concerned faces of the first years.

“_ Who _ ,” he began, hissing barely above a whisper, watching the color fade from every single one of the 65 faces in the room, “ _ Did thisssssss _.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i'm spitting these out so fast! I'm planning on posting more regularly but less often, most likely Wednesdays and Sundays. Thank you so much for all the sweet comments!
> 
> Wizard duel next chapter!
> 
> Follow me on twitter @Get_Wrexed if you'd like! I occasionally post about this fic, but it's mostly yelling about Good Omens~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culprits of the Great Greenhouse Gnome Massacre of 2018 are turned in. Azira is Crowley's emotional support Wizard. Professor Fell aids Professor Gabriel Goodbody in a Wizard duel demonstration, however personal feelings make the standoff a bit more intense than planned.

“Watch out for their heads, the little devils love to bite,” a gruff voice advised as if the students were preparing to pet baby kittens instead of bag the three dozen cackling and shouting gnomes currently swinging from overhead lamps. The half giant surveyed the greenhouse to make sure all the first years could see and hear him. He could have been thirty yards away and they still would have managed both just fine. 

“Do you think he’s gonna find out?” Brian mumbled, earning a sharp elbow in his ribs from the girl beside him. 

“Shut _ up _,” she grumbled under her breath. Pepper wasn’t particularly frightening looking, with her soft fluffy ponytail and small stature, but the boys new plenty well that didn't mean she was safe to mess with. And so, Brian fell quiet. 

The Hufflepuff and Gryffindors’ Herbology lesson had been redesignated a Magical Creatures class for today’s period, as their usual professor had a mental breakdown and might have started chucking the gnomes at the childrens’ heads had Professor McGonagall not entered in a very timely manner. 

It had been a fortunate event that she had encountered Professor Device in the halls after breakfast. They shared a small discussion about The Daily Prophet before Anathema interrupted her, quite out of nowhere, and said, “Actually, I believe you should be headed to the greenhouse. Things are about to go down like a lead balloon. Professor Crowley will desperately be needing some reinforcements. You may wish to go ahead and send for Hagrid as well.” After relaying this, she had turned sharp on her heel and retreated to the dungeons to begin her potions class. 

“Jus’ grab ‘em from their legs and stuff ‘em in a sack. Don’ worry about grabbin’ too many, now. They can play nice 'til we get ‘em on their way.”

“OW!” Wensleydale expressed, gaping in terror at the gnome currently swinging from his forearm by its teeth.

“Give ‘im a good swing, go on, that’s it!” Hagrid encouraged, incredibly optimistic and somehow not registering the boy's terror as he finally managed to fling the pest out the front greenhouse door, "Well done, Mr. Wensleydale! Now go and get 'im, if ye don't mind." The first year looked mortified. 

He gave Adam a forlorn look, muttering, “This was the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Yet. School year just started,” Adam admitted, trying to figure out how he was going to get his little group out of this one, “and I didn’t mean for _ this _ to happen. I didn’t know they were pests!” He lunged for one of the giant-headed creatures, grunting when it evaded him, and he fell into a pile of what had been a bag of fertilizer. He groaned in disgust, the gnome giggling madly as it frolicked away squeaking “Gotim! Gotim!”

“Did you _ see _ Professor Crowley’s face? I thought he’d skin us alive!” Brian expressed nervously. 

“He still might,” Adam noted solemnly.

“Yes, I suppose even the most laid back of people don’t enjoy when their hard work is obliterated, how odd,” Wensleydale snarked sarcastically. 

“He’s all bark, trust me, he’ll calm down, and it’ll all be fine,” Warlock reassured his new gang of friends. He reached for a gnome five different times from different directions, but each time the odd little leathery creature waited for his arm with a well-placed open mouth and bared teeth. 

“And what if he _ doesn’t _? I hear he comes from an old wizarding family that were followers of You-Know-Who. He might be a Death Eater. He might just curse us all,” Wednesdaydale said matter-of-factly, leaning against the counter and forfeiting any attempt to catch the gnomes.

“You don’t really believe that?” Warlock asked sadly. The Them looked conflicted. A few moments of silence passed as they each did their best, desperately grabbing at gnomes. 

“_ I _don’t, Crowley’s the only professor in this school that doesn’ make us write papers longer than our arms, and his class is more fun than anythin’. He can’t be evil,” Adam finally said, sounding very sure. Quickly the rest of the group agreed- they often fell in line behind Adam. He was their natural leader, and his firmly set ideals were unshakable and unanimous. 

“Of course he’s not _ evil _ . That’s stupid. Now would you lot _ shut it _ before you get us all caught?” Pepper hissed, already having a potato sack full of three yelling, squirming lumps- that was three more than any of her friends.

Warlock turned his bag upside-down and attempted to sneak up on a gnome from behind. In one rush of a movement, he threw the sack down over it, looking quite pleased when he caught it. The other boys in his group adapted to this technique, though it only caught them one each. Brian smiled in victory, holding up his bag and dramatically exclaiming, “haha! We’ve bested the wretched beasts- ARGH!” the burlap sack was now dangling from his hand and he flung it about himself cartoonishly. The gnome had bit him through the bag. 

“I think I miss Professor Crowley already,” the sole girl of the group expressed as she watched Brian’s comical little dance of pain, thinking about how their professor would have made some witty remark, there.

“Is tha’ all of the li’l buggers? Right, let's take em’ out near the forest, dizzy ‘em up, and throw ‘em back in,” Hagrid said brightly. The Them decided this part sounded decidedly more fun than the previous step. It wasn’t Herbology with Crowley, but perhaps Care of Magical Creatures wasn’t so bad.

* * *

“A-an- and m- ugh, m-my poor Dittany- I’d finally gotten the conditions just right, Angel. I had finally gotten it growing perfectly. Didn’t even get holes in its leaves anymore. You know how many hours of convincing that took?” convincing, in this context, meant threats of waterboarding, “Saint Mungo’s expected them two weeks from now! And don’t even get me STARTED on what those filthy vermin did to my stinging nettles.”

The traumatized Herbologist had been going on like this for nearly an hour, going through each of his poor victimized plants and detailing the devastating loss of each one. Azira had picked up on the urgency and depth of the delicate situation as soon as Professor McGonagall had deposited Crowley there, pale-faced and mumbling something about, “all that work, all those plants, all that cultivating and waiting and maintenance. I’ll smite them, swear to Flamel. Blast ‘em straight off the face of the earth. I don’t care. The greenhouse crashing down? Sure, would have gotten that. It setting ablaze? Understandable spell gone wrong. But a _ legion of sodding garden gnomes? _What kind of bloody army is that! How is that even possible?”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Professor Crowley, I assure you,” McGonagall had tried to assuage him, exchanging a look of understanding with Professor Fell before leaving the distraught wizard in his care.

Azira hadn’t managed to get a single word in between then and now. At first, he’d said nothing, because his friend had looked quite on the verge of exploding. He’d been hunched over in his usual armchair, holding his head as if letting go would result in a cosmic psychic wave of frustration blowing up the school. No, when Crowley was that flustered it was best to let him calm himself down. 

Typically, the librarian didn’t approve of drinking during the school day, but it had fallen to him to defuse the bomb somehow. A spiked cup of coffee had done the trick. While it would most likely seem tedious to be yelled at for this long to anyone else, Azira had felt a great sense of relief when Crowley had started. Raving Crowley was assuredly a safer bet than Silent Crowley. Raving Crowley was business as usual.

He watched the redhead stalk back and forth in his office, swinging his arms wildly and drastically fluctuating volume. “‘Oh, I know what’ll be fun,’” he mocked an unknown student in a nasally voice, “‘Let’s invite some gnomes to a garden party. We’ll have tea and chat about how to send Professor Crowley over the fucking edge as our guests _obliterate_ _every living thing in sight_.” He slipped back into the harsh timbres of his own hissing voice near the end of the sentence. “Can you even fathom? The gall an eleven year old has to ruin my greenhouse? How bloody au- das- auda-”

“Audacious?” Professor fell offered, speaking up for the first time since Crowley had been carefully deposited into his presence. 

“YES! That! _ Thank _ you,” Crowley exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air and huffing before finally collapsing in his chair. Azira watched the man finally sit still, arms splayed out to the sides of the armrests and head collapsed backwards onto the back of the chair. 

“That truly is awful, Dear Boy, I’m so sorry to hear. I do hope we can get to the bottom of this,” Azira sympathized. This was evidently the correct sentiment to offer, as Crowley raised his head to glance at the librarian, an eyebrow arching over his glasses.

“You mean you’d help?” 

“Of course, Crowley,” Azira reassured, “You’ve worked so hard. I can’t imagine how you must feel.” That was a lie, he could imagine exactly how the Herbology Professor felt. If a student had destroyed his library like that, Heaven and Hell together couldn’t come close to the wrath that would be Azira Fell. 

Crowley had long since been in love with Azira. He’d had a crush on him since he was thirteen and had watched the sixteen year old Head Boy floating after Diggory like he held the moon on a string. But of all the moments, he was quite sure he loved Azira in this one the most. “Right, thanks,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks warm as Azira gave him that look that made his heartbeat deafen his ears, that look of concern that was so deeply cherished and memorized. Perhaps it was because it made the man look so soft- soft for Crowley. Perhaps it was because he believed it was the closest his angel would ever come to looking at him with love.

“Are you quite well, my dear? You’re looking rather flushed.” 

“Erm- J- ehm, just a shite day,” Crowley managed the flimsy excuse, relieved when Azira seemed to take it. 

He was glad, this time, when there was a knock on the door, freeing him from his friend’s scrutiny. The librarian answered the door dutifully, opening it to a first year boy with hair more ginger than Crowley’s and robes covered in soil and fertilizer, “erm, is Professor Crowley around?” 

“In here,” Crowley called, leaning forward in his chair and looking mournfully at the soil on the uniform as if it was blood from fallen comrades. 

“Do come in, Mr. Knotts,” Azira encouraged the boy, standing back and letting him pass. 

“Erm…. can we shut the door? There’s something you ought to know.” 

Both Azira and Crowley looked intrigued by this, and Professor Fell obliged, shutting the door and turning back to the boy, standing there, awkwardly fiddling with his hands. 

“Are you quite alright, Dear Boy? Would you like some cocoa, I find it soothes the nerves.” 

Knotts gave him a grateful smile, relaxing at the kindness, and shook his head. Crowley marveled at that, at how Azira could melt worry away from people the way a potion could rid a body of any trace of Dragon Pox. 

“This will only take a minute,” the ginger insisted, turning to Crowley and clearing his throat. 

Crowley didn’t bother adjusting his posture, and he arched a brow at his student. They seemed to stare at each other for a few moments, the boy’s fidgeting returning, before a dawning realization came to the professor.

“Knotts,” he crooned, sitting forward and sliding his glasses down his nose before tilting his head in intrigue, “What do you know?” 

The boy turned pale under his professor’s gaze, trying not to gawk at the strange eyes and clearing his throat, “It was The Them.”

“.... What was The Who?” 

“The Them- that is, Young and his little gang. I heard ‘em in class whispering about letting the gnomes in.” 

“Right,” the Herbologist nodded, leaning back again and reveling in how easily that answer had come to him. He was a bit remiss that this meant no playing Detective with Azira, however. He wondered how he would punish ‘The Them’. Most likely they’d be taking a trip with Hagrid into the Forbidden Forest to hunt for rare herbs and fungi. This transgression was a bit too large to be rewarded with one of Crowley’s fun detentions.

The boy looked pleased that he’d exposed the guilty party, that is, right up until Crowley followed himself up with, “Thanks for the info. Two points from Hufflepuff- don’t be a snitch.” 

No sooner did shock plaster itself onto Knotts face than Azira began ushering the boy out of the office, “Now then, off you go, Mr. Knotts, well done for honesty. Very admirable. Do clean up before you use the library, please.” 

The first year was in a daze as he exited the office, busy wondering what exactly had just happened and running face-first into a tall, broad figure’s chest.

“Oh- S-sorry Professor Goodbody!” 

“No problem, Mr. Knotts. You should use more caution though, I could have been a boggart,” joked the man who wore a ridiculous, empty smile plastered on his face. 

“I’d take the boggart,” Crowley mumbled under his voice as he laid eyes on what was officially The Very Last Thing he wanted to deal with today. 

Azira threw him a warning glance that roughly translated to ‘behave yourself’ before putting on a polite smile that was assuredly just as insincere as Gabriel’s. While Crowley found himself wishing very deeply to obey Azira, to earn praise, he doubted his behavior mattered. This day surely couldn’t get any worse. 

“Crawly. Heard about the greenhouse, so sorry,” Goodbody cooed. Something about it made him seem not very sorry at all. The librarian tensed, worrying his hands together and glancing nervously at Crowley.

“_ Crowley _,” Anthony corrected through gritted teeth, seething at the audacity. He glanced at Azira’s pleading face and cursed his own weakness, clearing his throat and dedicating all his efforts to appear relaxed, “‘s fine.”

“Don’t look so glum, it’s not like anything was destroyed that can’t be replaced. That’s the whole thing about plants, isn’t it? They grow?” 

“What you know about plants could--,” Crowley started hissing.

“-could be a very interesting and helpful contribution,” Azira interrupted, desperately trying to keep the peace, “I’m sure Professor Crowley would love to discuss it with you some time.”

“Oh yes, I’d be soooo charmed,” his friend mocked in a high-pitched sing-song voice. 

Professor Fell pushed the conversation forward as if Anthony hadn’t said anything, resulting in the man sulking further, “But for today, how can I help, is there something you needed, Gabriel?” 

“Ah, yes, actually!” Gabriel beamed, “Dueling Club starts this afternoon and I was looking for some volunteers. Professor McGonagall mentioned Professor Crawly wasn’t going to be bothered to work today. I figured some productivity might do him well. You must be free as well, it’s not like there’s anything keeping you busy here.” 

There was practically steam coming out of Crowley’s ears. He had his head tilted, jaw clenched, and while his posture was still languid and unconcerned, his dark red nails dug into his palms so hard he nearly drew blood. There wasn’t one person in this whole blasted school that worked as hard as Azira, who aided more students or who had anywhere near his compendium of knowledge. He deeply considered playing nice just long enough to give Gabriel a tour of the greenhouse harboring his giant carnivorous plants. Or perhaps he’d invite him to an innocent sport near the Whomping Willow. 

“Of course,” the corners of Azira’s mouth twitched upwards, but the expression could only be labeled a smile by the loosest of terms.

“_ What? _” Crowley spat. Professor Fell looked at him so sharply he immediately shut his trap, but continued gaping. 

The forced smile returned to his face. Crowley figured Gabriel spread those contagiously, “Professor _ Crowley _ and I would be delighted to help.” 

‘_ We would? _’ Anthony wanted to blurt out, offended at being offered as an unwilling volunteer, but found himself unable to speak, a sharp jolt of fear striking his heart. 

“Excellent!” Professor Goodbody expressed, clapping his hands together in front of him, “Well then, I’ll see you both there.” 

Azira smiled as the man shut the door on his way out, turning back to Crowley and finding he was being squinted at incredulously. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know things will be much simpler this way.”

“I’m sorry, did you hear about how my bloody day has gone?”

“Yes, Dear, I’ve heard little else for the last hour,” Azira said. His voice didn’t betray his feeling of irritation at being snapped at, but his face did. 

Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it, clenching his teeth. He slowly turned down the dial of how heated his response would be as one salty retort after another carded through his mind. “Right. Sorry to bother you with it,” he finally settled on, standing to make his exit. 

“Crowley, wait. I only meant that volunteering will keep today from going bad to worse.”

“You’ve gone and made it _ worse _, Angel. Might as well mark this day off as steaming dragon dung, all because you’re too scared of upsetting Fuckbody the Plastic Professor.” 

Azira scoffed indignantly, narrowing his eyes at Crowley, “honestly, Anthony, you can be such a child sometimes.” 

“Oh, can I? Great then!” Crowley nearly shouted, mocking joy through his bitterness as he snatched a book off Azira’s desk at random and waved it in the air, opening the door and backing out of it, “Checking out a book, Professor Fell! Thank you, Professor Fell. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to eat lots of chocolate and get smudges on every single page and dog ear every place I pause.” 

He turned to stalk out of the office with his long legs, ignoring the students giggling over the loud and accurate read on what ruffled the librarian’s feathers. Azira did as well in his heated state, walking out of his office and growling, “You wouldn’t _ dare _, Anthony!” just before the Herbologist let the library door slam behind him. 

* * *

The room hosting the Duelling Club was large, but the sheer number of students that had shown up along with their boisterous noises made it feel much smaller. Crowley’s stomach churned as he slithered towards the back wall. His path was blocked by two young second year Slytherins comparing their dramatic (and horribly incorrect) battle stances.

“Okay, okay, but what if it was like _ this _,” Scorpius Malfoy lunged forward with one leg, dramatically swinging his wand over his head as if it were a lasso and attempted to fling his arm down so his best friend, Albus Potter, would have to look down his nose at the tip of his wand. Instead the wand flung and hit him squarely in the face, “Oh… perhaps not that one then.” 

“Potter, Malfoy, love the comedy, love the script, grade A casting, but let's not take each other’s eyes out trying to get the performance right, yeah?”

The boys grinned sheepishly up at him before shuffling out of the way, “Sorry, Professor Crowley.” 

As Crowley neared his destination, he passed by Azira, and he would have felt embarrassed at his earlier behavior if he allowed himself to feel embarrassment. He did feel badly, however, and wondered if his companion was still upset with him. Upon making eye contact, the blonde promptly turned his nose up, righted his cloak, and walked to the opposite side of the room. Well, that was one question answered.

Soon enough the room settled down and the smug bastard himself stood in the center of it, his hands folded together in front of him.

“Good evening, everybody. Thank you for coming to the first meeting of Dueling Club. I’m delighted so many of you show an interest. Wizard duels are as old as the wizarding world itself. While things are safer than they may have been say, twenty years ago, the knowledge of self-defense is crucial, and the practice to back it up is even more so. We remain in a dangerous world. The after-effects of the Second Wizarding War are still shaking us to our foundations. There are plenty who remain in plain sight that have connections to Death Eaters: their friends, cousins, _ children _. They exist in all places as many things. Some are bakers, some are bankers, some work for the ministry, some are professors and gardeners.”

He looked pointedly at the tall, red-headed figure in the back of the room and was glowered at in return. Why didn’t he just flip out his wand and shoot confetti all over Crowley? Or transfigure a sign of a giant arrow pointing right at him?

Crowley tuned out the rest of the introduction, looking around at the students and wondering if any of them felt any different about him due to Gabriel’s incriminating allusions. One pureblood Slytherin girl near the back, a fourth year by the name of Attica Snyde, looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Clearly Crowley wasn’t the only one feeling victimized. He shuffled toward her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She nearly jumped, looking at him with watery eyes. He offered a comforting and sympathetic smile, she smiled back, grateful when he blocked her so she could rub her eyes dry without anyone noticing.

It wasn’t until Crowley heard his deadname that he looked back up at the stage.

“_ Crowley _,” he corrected instinctively before realizing he was being looked at expectantly, “… what you want?”

Gabriel looked pleased that Crowley was embarrassing himself without him having to lift a finger yet, “I asked if you would mind joining me for a demonstration of a wizarding duel.”

The bespectacled professor felt the base of the wand in his pocket, feeling his heart start to speed up significantly. His mouth became dry and he swallowed hard, suddenly struggling to keep his breaths even.

Trying to take a moment to distract himself, he closed his eyes. _ Think of something else, come on, Anthony, _he thought desperately. His mind betrayed him, forcing him dangerously close to memories of the last time he’d wielded his wand against another person. Flashes of colors shot across his vision from behind his eyelids. Suddenly, deafening noises skirted the rim of his consciousness: cries for loved ones, screams of agony, castings of unforgivable curses. It took all his concentration to push the memories back down. Through all of it, his heartbeat was growing deafening in his ears. He needed to calm down. He needed to stop remembering. Opening his eyes again, he realized the entire room was staring at him.

“I- eh, th- tha – that _ issssssss _ I- I- I’m,” he began, cursing his speech impediment for being a dead giveaway of precisely how he felt. The smile on Goodbody’s face grew sickeningly more honest.

It was in this moment Azira had a shameful revelation behind why, exactly, Crowley had gotten so upset when he’d volunteered him in the library office earlier.

“That is, Professor Crowley’s had an incredibly stressful day, I’m sure you’ve heard. I would be happy to be your opponent, Gabriel. Perhaps Professor Crowley would be willing to moderate?”

If Crowley could leap across the room, grab Azira’s face, and kiss him absolutely silly, he would. That is, he had always wanted to, since he was a teenager, but never as much as right now. Once his guardian angel, always his guardian angel. Crowley took a deep breath, shaking off the panic that had been setting in a moment ago and readapting to his typical laissez-faire nature, “Yeah- ehhh, w-why not. As much as I’d love to blow someone up today, might not set the best example.”

A few laughs spread through the room, the occupants of which had easily overlooked Crowley’s stony silence and stuttering that had occurred a moment ago. After all, it was practically Hogwarts Trivia that he was easily frazzled when having a stressful or bad day. 

Gabriel almost let his smile drop, clearly disappointed that his plan of publicly humiliating the Herbology Professor was foiled. The glint of challenge in his eyes returned as quickly as it disappeared, “You’re sure you’re in shape enough for it, Professor Fell? I would hate you getting hurt.”

The students immediately started whispering at each other. Crowley debated throwing his wand and cloak to the wayside and slugging the bastard straight in his square jaw right there. Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to Wizard duel after what he’d witnessed at the Battle of Hogwarts, but he was prepared to Muggle scrap without hesitation. To hell with the fact that the man easily doubled Anthony’s size.

Azira didn’t react, simply smiled with a slight wrinkle in his nose, “I assure you, I’m quite good for it.”

The two wizards removed their outer robes and positioned themselves across the room from each other.

“_ Protego Totalum, Repello Inimicum, Fianto Duri, _” Crowley chanted as he circled the area around the two wizards, protecting the students from any deflected spells that might come their way. He caught eyes with Azira as he did so. The other wizard gave him a secret, sly little smile with a glint in his eyes that Crowley didn’t know how to decipher. For some reason, it sent a prickle of chills up the back of his neck and arms, and he felt blood pool to his face.

“Um, right,” he said, trying to shake off the heat the look had made him feel, “Ahem. Erm. Wizards ready?”

“Ready,” Gabriel said, walking to the center of the room.

“Ready,” Azira mirrored the single word and action.

“Bow,” Crowley instructed, and the two did so. Gabriel made eye contact his entire decent. His opponent smiled innocently in turn. They split directions, returning to their opposite ends of the room. Gabriel spread his stance sideways, his right arm arched over his head and holding his wand ready. Aziraphale stood with his heels together, feet perpendicular to one another, and delicately but unwaveringly raised his left arm before him, Pear wand an extension of it, his right hand held behind his back.

“And….. duel!”

“_ Confringo!” _

“_ Protego!” _

The two spells were cast almost simultaneously. A gush of fire and smoke rolled against the invisible wall to Azira’s right, and all students behind it jumped back, startled. Azira barely flinched away from it, squinting his blue eyes in determination. The impact caused his hair to flutter in the opposite direction, and he gracefully sprung into action. Immediately, the room was filled with exclamations and excited shouting. Crowley was silent, mouth slightly hanging open as he, too, was instantly captivated.

Azira’s feet moved skillfully in a semi-circle as he spun his wand again but didn’t strike.

_ “Baubillious _,” Gabriel shouted, throwing his arm aggressively. Before the pattern for the spell had been completed, Aziraphale countered yet again.

“_ Lumos Maxima.” _

A bright breach of yellow white lightning erupted from the end of Gabriel’s wand, however it went nearly everywhere _ but _ its target as the light Azira conjured blinded him. The lightning crackled against the invisible barrier on the left side of Azira. The crowd instinctively ducked down, except for the duel’s mediator, who was frankly quite useless as such as he’d entirely forgotten how to function.

Never before had he seen Azira like _ this. _ The blonde looked completely and utterly calm, and yet an invisible wave of uninterpretable power radiated off him. His face wore an expression of focus and concentration that made the way he looked at books seem utterly meaningless. If his eyes were the sky, a mighty storm was brewing in them now- all-consuming, merciless, mighty. He bided his time, and it became obvious he was allowing his opponent to reveal his cards before playing his own. His movements contained an effortless fluidity, and yet Crowley had a growing hunch that something of intoxicating vigor lurked hidden beneath them.

Every hair on Anthony’s body was standing on edge, and if he thought his heart was beating too hard and fast before, now he was sure it would rupture out of his chest and his eardrums would burst. His face was flushed and his breath was scarce and ragged. Beneath his glasses, his pupils were blown wide. If Azira had been the sun, Crowley would get burnt to a crisp attempting to endlessly soak in his light. His mind melted into a puddle in his skull, and all he could think of is how _ desperately he wanted Azira to look at _ him _ like that _.

“_ Nox, _” Azira enunciated clearly, and Gabriel harshly fell forward, thrown off by the disappearance of the bright light and swinging his wand again, more impatiently now.

Despite his stature, Azira dodged and countered swiftly, advancing in a way that could only be described as elegant. It was a wizard’s duel, but it was utterly reminiscent of a fencing match.

“_ Stupefy _!” Gabriel growled, losing patience. This had been meant to be easy. He was supposed to humiliate the unpracticed librarian.

“_ Protego,” _ Azira said again smoothly as he deflected the attack, fluidly countering without a second’s hesitation, _ “Expulso.” _

Gabriel burst backwards, body slamming against the wall and sliding down against it, roaring in frustration. The room was wild now, students shoving each other out of the way to see better, shouting at either of the professors and at each other. Professor Goodbody thrusted his wand, fisted inelegantly in his hand now, forward, _ “Lacarnum Inflamarae!” _

The leg of Azira’s trousers burst into flames. It didn’t do anything close to breaking his focus. Without looking downwards, Professor Fell spun his wand in a circle, chanting “_ Aquamenti _ ” on the downswing, extinguishing the fire, and flourishing the wand on the upswing into a smooth, “ _ Glacius Duo.” _

“_ PROTEGO _ !” his opponent shouted, only deflecting the spell by the skin of his teeth, and the barrier to the side of him became encased in thick slabs of ice. The students behind it crowd-surged their neighbors to the side so they might continue to watch. Gabriel’s always-immaculate hair was hanging loosely in his face, sweat was forming on his brow, and his signature smile was nowhere in sight, “ _ Petrificus Totalus _!”

Another deflection. Azira’s intensity only seemed to grow, but the duelist remained all the more collected, focused, determined. He was a predator cornering its prey, and his opponent was submitting exactly into the desired position. Gabriel was being fashioned into a frazzled mess, and all Crowley could seem to manage to think, over and over, his eyes locked on the scene, was _ fuck, I wish that were me _.

“_ Locomotor Mortis.” _

Gabriel’s stance faltered, and he barely remained standing as his legs snapped together into the binding spell, sending his patience over the edge.

“_ SAGITTA,” _he spat, shaking with rage as he put all his fury behind the spell.

Spinning on his foot, Azira jumped to the side like a skilled swordsman dodging a lunging strike. The arrow that had shot from Goodbody’s wand missed piercing him, but it grazed his upper arm, cutting into his sleeve and causing blood to seep from the wound.

Crowley wanted to be outraged that the duelist had used such a dangerous spell, but right now he was a devout believer and his religion was Azira Fell. The faith and worship pounding through his veins told him it hadn’t mattered; the spell was a desperate attempt from the drowning victim of a Kappa to fight back, thrashing noiselessly and hopelessly in the river, but his fate had already been sealed.

Azira prowled forward slowly, preparing his last strike. Gabriel fell backwards, pushing himself away from his opponent with his free hand and throwing his arm back to wind up his next spell.

_ “Impedimenta,” _ Professor Fell interrupted, taking a step forward. Suddenly, Gabriel’s draw forward was slowed down several times over, as if gravity had rescinded its graces.

_ “Expelliarmus,” _ a second calm step toward his prey. The wand that had been aiming at him in slow motion slapped against the wall behind his target, clacking weakly as it bounced to the floor.

Finally, Azira took a third and final step before halting his approach only a yard from Professor Goodbody. He intense eyes bore down at him, posture powerfully poised above the man who was entirely at his mercy. His entire body emanated a ferocity that no spectator had ever witnessed from Azira Fell. The room was silent, every occupant gaping in awe, wondering what he would do next.

It was Azira’s turn to show his token smile, unbothered by Gabriel clamoring to snatch his wand, but slow to do so with his legs bound together. Azira finally relaxed the intensity of his focus, the storm clearing into a beautiful blue sky. He flourished his wand in finality, simply unable to help himself.

_ “Rictusempra.” _

Gabriel collapsed in his journey to his fallen wand, bursting into hysterical laughter despite the furious look on his face and rolling around on the floor, clutching his stomach.

Crowley realized as he tried to laugh along with the crowd that not only did he have no oxygen, but his lungs were burning, and he must have been turning quite blue in the face from not breathing. He took a great gasp and panted for air, grinning madly, uninhibited, totally vulnerable as Azira turned to him and gave him a coy wink.

Azira himself looked surprised, wondering what he had possibly done to earn the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen on Crowley’s face.

“Witches and wizards, I do believe we have a winner!” the mediator shouted over the whoops and cheers as the champion of the duel released the loser from his hexes. Crowley took Azira’s hand and raised it in the air, that same smile not leaving his face as the cheering went on for quite a while. Gabriel stood, righting his hair and smoothing his vest, realizing he was glaring at his opponent and working hard to put on a fake smile for the students.

“Can I get a ‘wahoo’?”

“WAHOO!” the room shouted back in tandem.

Azira blushed at the most attention he had ever gotten at his time in Hogwarts- as a student or a teacher. “Oh please,” he pushed back against the praise, not that it did much. He squeezed Crowley’s hand, and the taller Professor was sure he’d combust on the spot, still absolutely riled with adrenaline from witnessing the force of nature that was Azira.

When Gabriel finally regained control of the room, he started discussing deflection spells. He cited the many spells Azira had deflected in their duel in an attempt to make his opponent look cowardly. Really it served more as a testament to his reflexes.

Afterwards, the students paired off, and Crowley took his chance to slip out of the room unnoticed. Surely, they would need more help now than they did before keeping the kids civil, but Anthony was currently a raving mad mess. He was burning up, beads of sweat forming under his clothing. He was positively sure he was going to combust if he didn’t cool down immediately. Into the cold October air he went, immediately shucking off his cloak, scarf, and sweater. He staggered for a moment before leaning against the castle wall and sinking down it, throwing his head back with a loud and painful smack as he panted for air.

“Get yourself together, man,” he groaned, setting his elbows against his knees, taking his glasses off, and rubbing his face into his hands. The fresh experience of the duel kept his heart at its rocketing pace, and he leaned his head back against the cold stone wall again, more carefully this time. His long fingers rested over his heart, as if they could persuade it to quiet down. The images and feelings he witnessed raced through his body and mind. The way Azira moved so skillfully, decisively, precise. The manner his eyes shifted and gleamed, reflecting all the colors of each burst of magic. The _ absolute power he had commanded _.

“Helga Hufflepuff’s Hippogriff, I’ve never seen you with this little clothing in this weather. You look like you have heatstroke, what the hell happened?” came the potion-master’s voice.

Anathema Device stood in front of him in her flowing green velvet cloak, holding a basket of books in her arms and raising her brows when she saw his blown-wide amber snake eyes.

“Azira Fell,” he groaned.

A massive grin of mischief took over her features, “Ohhh, so things are finally getting spicy? I knew he must feel the same. Where’d you do it? Broom closet?”

This was not helping Crowley’s skin tone return to normal.

“Th- tha- that’sssss n- nnn- _not_ _what h-happened,_” he hissed, irritated as Anathema looked further amused.

She found a seat next to him and listened as he regaled her with the story of The Duel of Fell and Goodbody. She looked at him with a pitiful, adoring expression that he hated, but getting this out of his system was paramount.

“Ah, here’s where you ran off to, meeting’s over,” came an all too familiar voice.

“Came out for a breath and I held him up, sorry, Azira,” Anathema covered for Crowley all too kindly. He felt a wave of gratitude.

“Think nothing of it, Dear Girl! What are you two discussing so animatedly?”

“Your incredible exploits, of course!” Professor Device grinned, and Crowley felt his appreciation dissipate.

“Oh, I’m sure Crowley was exaggerating,” Azira insisted, his ears turning pink as he smiled bashfully.

“Not even close!” Crowley exclaimed, “Hell’s bells, where did that _ come _ from, Angel? You were bloody brilliant!”

“I do think I might have gotten carried away,” the librarian admitted, “years of resentment I suppose.”

Anthony pulled his cloak toward him, fumbling around for his wand and standing to take Azira’s arm. He brandished it at the cut in a few different patterns, with a few different words. The cut healed completely, blood vanishing from the shirt and sleeve mending itself. The expression of thanks was promptly ignored.

“Years of resentment? Towards Goodbody? I forget he went here before I came in, did you know each other?” Crowley asked. Anathema cocked her head, eager to know the answer as well.

Azira sighed, looking back and forth between his two friends, both looking at him with burning curiosity.

“Yes. He was in the same year and house as my older sibling, Michael. They treated me terribly growing up- and as an adult. I try to be civil, as the relationship between me and Michael is stressed enough without Gabriel running and telling them all my dirt.”

Both of his friends were surprised at this admission, realizing all at once that they truly didn’t know much about Azira’s personal history.

“You haven’t got any dirt, you’re an angel,” Crowley grinned at him, delighted as this resulted in Azira’s cheeks pinkening. 

“Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry for earlier. I was a bit of- … well, a bit of a bastard,” he mumbled the last word.

“After that? You’ve more than made it up to me. And if that duel proved anything to me, it’s that deep down, you’re just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.”

The absolutely adoring and slightly bashful smile Crowley earned lit up the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to dedicate this chapter to my own beloved Aziraphale, @Faethryderart on twitter, who absolutely lost their mind getting to witness "Daddy" Azira, and who gives me a stupid amount of encouragement and validation to keep going when I'm insecure about my writing.
> 
> Follow me or yell at me @Get_Wrexed on literally any platform. I'm most active on twitter and sometimes ask for reader input on miscellaneous details for this fic!
> 
> Next update Sunday. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley dreams of an earlier time while trying to cope with a disheartening correspondence. Azira cheers him up with an early birthday gift.

September 18th, 1993

It was a warm, lazy Sunday morning at Hogwarts. Most students had opted to take off their house robes and lay them on the grass to use as blankets, studying or gossiping with friends as the slight September breeze rustled their hair, flipped their books closed, or sent their parchment whirling into the wind. The slight September breeze, in this case, wasn’t founded in any kind of nature but instead in the mischief of two inseparable Hufflepuffs.

“_ Ohhhhh _ that one got air, not bad, A.J.,” said a girl with bright green eyes and dark skin.

Crawly deposited his wand into his lap as the most recent targets of their petty crimes peered at the pair in suspicion. The offender was sitting behind his partner-in-crime, innocently occupied with braiding her long dark brown hair, “N-no-n-not b-bad, eh? Let’s s-sss-see what you can do, then, Heller the Hellraiser.”

“Hmmmmm,” hummed Valencia Heller, eyes narrowing as she surveyed their surroundings, “who’s the target?”

“G-g, eh, g-_ go _ for G-Granger. She’ll lose her head,” Anthony suggested, the two grinned at each other and Valencia retrieved her wand, which was sitting in Crawly’s lap next to his own. The two third years had spent the entire summer at her parents Spanish cottage learning low-level jinxes so they might keep themselves entertained with trouble all year. Heller kept her wand low under her knee, attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible as she pointed it at the Gryffindor trio and whispered, “ _ Ventus _.”

The ‘wind’, picked up again, more viciously this time, hitting several innocent parties on its way to the three students and effectively sending all their parchments swirling up in a spiral and spreading so far apart the three of them had to jump and leap about the lawn to snatch them. Valencia and Anthony snickered to themselves quietly, both gazing off innocently when a few nearby groups glared at them.

“That wassss _ wicked _,” Crawly leaned forward, whispering to avoid eavesdroppers. He tied off the end of her long braid, and she pulled it over her shoulder. The energetic girl jumped to her feet, stretching and cracking her back before grinning at her best friend.

“Thank you, Master Crawly,” she said, twisting her hand about her wrist as she dramatically bowed down before him. “Today’s the first day we can go to Hogsmeade, what you say we go to Honeydukes and split a haul?”

“Oh please, Madam Heller, Mas-ss-ster Crawly was my _ father _,” he said, holding his hand over his heart, “You can c-ca-call me his reigning highness of Hogwarts, Crawly—and yes, Honeydukes issss a go.”

An enormous grin struck Val’s face, and she picked her robe off the ground, swinging it dramatically around her shoulders without putting her arms through the sleeves, “then, I suppose I must be _ her _ reigning highness of Hogwarts, Heller.”

“Shit, that s-sss-sounds _ way _ better. Alliteration really m-makessss it work,” Crawly mused lazily, laying down to lounge on his side and stretch out his spindly limbs over his robes.

“Well then! Let us be off~ Abbott, Finch-Fletchley, and Macmillan are meeting us there,” she chirped.

As she listed the company meant to join them, the redhead felt his heart sink in his chest. Crawly always felt badly for holding his best friend back, hoarding her to himself, but he simply didn’t find himself worth being around other people. They wouldn’t want him around. No one save for Valencia ever did

“You n-knnn-know,” he mused, doing his best to act uninterested as he raised an arm straight up, idly examining his fresh golden and black nail polish in the light, “think I might fanccccy a nap instead.”

“Oh come off it, AJ, you can’t hide away forever! Let’s go cause some trouble.”

“We jus-sss-st did a p-pretty good job of it, if I do s-sssay so myself,” he mumbled defensively.

“Fine then. _ More _ trouble! Fresh meat! First time off school grounds at Hogwarts!”

“You shhh-should leave the tempting to m-me,” Crawly advised. He was more of a _ person _ -person as opposed to a _ people _-person, as in he usually gravitated towards a single individual, but he did have a remarkable way of talking people into the most ridiculous things.

“You’re impossible! Come ON, you lazy snake!” she delivered a playful kick to the bottom of his shoe.

“S-sss-sleep,” he groaned, flopping onto his back.

“_ Chaosssss,” _she whispered back devilishly.

Instead of a proper response, Crawly put his hands under his head and let out a loud fake snore which turned into a loud “NGK” as Valencia stepped on his thin stomach as part of her path past him, grinning over her shoulder, “Sweet dreams, sweet AJ.”

He threw her a rude gesture before adjusting his bag to use as a pillow, folding his hands over where she had stepped in case someone else dared give a try.

Naps on the grounds were one of Crawly’s favorite ways to be lonely. Not on weekdays- too much foot traffic over the area, but Saturdays? Absolutely. Students and professors alike left each other to their own devices.

He closed his eyes and did what he always did when taking cat naps. Focusing his mind, he isolated each sound in his surroundings. The waves of the lake gently lapped on the shore. Excited voices spoke unintelligibly in the distance. The soft leaves of the trees shook gently above him, the sun poking through the canopy warm as it danced across his skin. Owls hooted gently as they soared overhead. Grass crunched dryly under two sets of passing feet.

Crawly’s heart leapt out of his chest when, more quickly than he could register, his glasses were snatched off his face.

“Oi!” The gangly teen jolted up right, desperately slapping his hands over his face as he peaked through the cracks of his fingers to spot the offender. It was two tall figures towering over him, standing on the edge of his robes. He couldn’t quite make out their faces, but he had a pretty good guess as to their identities.

“G-ge-get _ off _ my robes,” he hissed, “and give my s-sss-s-sunglasses back.”

“Ohhh, did we upset you, C-C-C-Creepy C-C-Crawly?” said a familiar mocking voice, “Where’s your knight in shining armor? Felt safe letting your guard down?”

This confirmed his fears. Blasted Hastur and Ligur, the two Slytherin fifth years. They were terrified of Valencia, who had quite the hot temper, ever since she’d turned Hastur into a duck and shrunk Ligur’s head to a tiny little nub on his neck. There were also a couple incidences of well-placed kicks and punches involved in the matter: a knocked-out tooth, a broken nose, a fractured cheekbone, and a professor yanking her, writhing, away as she hissed, “_ touch him again, and you’ll wish you were dead.” _

“B-B-Bugger off,” warned Anthony.

“Oh, not very friendly. I guess that’s what we should expect from a blood traitor.”

“I’m _ not _a b-bl-blood traitor,” the boy defended himself, lowering his eyes and removing one hand from his face to feel for his wand.

“Looking for this?” Hastur asked. Anthony couldn’t see what he was holding but wasn’t stupid. “Let’s call this exhibit A? Applewood. For someone an esteemed pureblood family? Doesn’t work well with dark magic, but is perfect for fuzzy wuzzy little Hufflepuffs, huh? And let’s call that exhibit B. ‘Hard-working’, ‘honest’, ‘_ kind’ _ , pathetic. That’s not you, is it? You were born bad, lost at that, tried your hand at being a goody and were awful at that too. You’ll never be friends with Muggle-borns, and you certainly will never find your place with us purebloods. No one will ever want you. Look at you. You know that, don’t you? You play the part _ perfectly _. Won’t even show your eyes. No wonder your family won’t even keep you.”

That hit Anthony where it hurt, and he desperately withheld tears, choking up as his stutter worsened. “Ssss-sss-shhh-Shuuu- Shuuuut-,” he struggled to begin.

“W-w-what, Creepy Crawly? Gonna c-c-cry?”

“Shhh- shhhhuuu-,” he continued to try before swallowing hard and hissing, “_ Fuck off, sss-supremecist pricksss _.”

He tried to shout as he felt a sharp pain on his scalp and the weight of two people on top of him, pinning his hands down to the ground, away from his face, and covering his mouth.

“Show us your eyes, Creepy Crawly.”

“Yeah, show us or we’ll take them out and look for ourselves.”

His lungs burned as he screamed under their hand, struggling with all his might but not strong enough to overpower the two older boys. His eyes were clamped tightly shut.

“Are you _ afraid, blood-traitor? _ Why do you hide them? Is it because you know your father is ashamed that you have them? Are you afraid of not fitting in with your little house running rampant with half-breeds? Or is because you know deep down that you’ll _ never belong anywhere?” _

“Get off of him this instant,” came a melodic voice from a boy who, based on his timbre and pitch, Crowley assumed to be an older student.

“Shove off, it’s a Saturday and we’re finding fun where we can.”

“Did it sound like I was posing a request? If so, I misspoke. This is truly pitiful, Hastur, Ligur. Bullying a third year? Honestly. Get off him now or I’m going directly to Snape with this.”

“Ohhhh, mad little Mudblood, going to tattle on us? You can’t do any- “

“_Expelliarmus,” _the voice enunciated clearly. That took care of one of them. Crawly immediately felt the weight on him lift away. The third year expected to hear the other half of the pair immediately countering, but instead heard silence.

“His things, if you don’t mind,” tutted the voice, and after another moment, “thank you. Now get out of my sight. If I catch you bothering younger students again, especially in my house, I won’t hold back.”

Finally, Hastur’s voice sounded, “Remember what it feels like to be down in the dirt, blood-traitor, that’s where you belong, and that’s where you’ll stay.” A sharp kick to Crawly’s ribs sent him sprawling onto his side.

_ “Veritas Ostendit,” _said the soft voice in a surprisingly severe manner. A cry was released from the person Crawly believed to be Hastur. A beat of silence passed, then the two Slytherins burst into hysterics.

“Stupid Mudblood Puff. Can’t even do a proper hex. Pathetic.” The laughing retreated, but Crawly remained curled into himself, holding his aching ribs. He waited in the silence before he heard someone approach him again, flinching inward as he felt a hand on his arm.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the voice, much more gently than it had sounded a moment ago. Crawly winced as he tried to roll onto his back, squinting through his eyelashes at the figure above him. Despite himself, despite his self-hatred and deep insecurity, his eyes shot open at what he saw.

A beautiful boy leaned above him, his bright blue eyes offering a look through his blonde lashes that was gentler and more comforting than any glance Crawly had ever received. He had a round face, a pointed nose, a soft-looking mouth, and beautiful white-blonde curls. The sun beat down behind his head, creating a halo effect from the younger boy’s perspective. He was silent as he gaped stupidly up at his savior- Azira Fell.

It’s not that he’d never seen him before, of course he had. He was the sixth year Hufflepuff Prefect, infamously intelligent, notoriously kind, and wildly popular. It’s just that he’d never approached Crawly before, and the 13-year-old had a strict policy against approaching anyone else. He was quite sure they’d never made eye contact before, much less spoken.

“Here you are, these are yours, yes?” Azira asked, holding out a pair of sunglasses.

Crawly turned stark white as he realized the prefect had seen his eyes, scrambling quickly to grab the glasses and shove them onto his face. He took his wand next, and tried to sit up, crying out in pain as he did so.

“Oh, you poor dear, they really are scoundrels, aren’t they? Let me fix you up,” he said, so reassuringly that Crawly didn’t bother saying anything or arguing- not that he was sure he was really capable in his current stupor. He drew his cardigan and shirt up to reveal his bony torso, wincing as he saw the already deep bruise forming where he’d been kicked as well as what appeared to be a broken bone. Azira tutted in concerned disapproval, “This may hurt for just a moment. I promise I know what I’m doing. _ Episkey _.”

Crawly wished he hadn’t watched as the bone snapped back into place. He cried out again, biting his lip hard until he realized the pain was entirely gone. When he looked back down, the wound had already vanished.

His gaze turned back to his savior, who was sitting back on his heels, hands on his knees, and smiling comfortingly at Crawly, “Now, that’s better, isn’t it?”

Anthony nodded sheepishly, sitting up and rubbing his side in wonder.

“Your name is Crawly, isn’t it?”

“Anthony Crawly, I’m n-nnn-not the heir of S- SSS-Slytherin,” Crawly managed out defensively, “Or a s-sss-suporter of You-Kn-Know-Who.” Fell made an expression of surprise before finding his kind smile again.

“My Dear Boy, I would never accuse you of any of those things,” he promised. Despite his paranoia, Crawly was inclined to believe him, “and neither should anyone else, if they’re decent. Just so you know. Not everyone is like Hastur and Ligur.”

“B-b-but,” Crawly began with a struggle, feeling incredibly flustered in front of the boy, much to his own dismay, “they’re right.”

“About what?” Fell responded so fast it made Anthony stagger.

A long pause of silence ensued. Crawly stared at the grass below him, loosely grasping it in his fingers and watching it almost curl towards him on its own. He expected the older boy to immediately start lecturing him, to share his wild speculations, to ask insensitive questions. It never came. When he braved a glance upward, he found Azira still present, leaning forward patiently as he gazed at the third year’s face.

His heart thumped loudly in his ears. He would wonder why, but the reason was literally staring him in the face. The way the prefect was looking at him- it made him feel ... _ seen _. Exposed. Vulnerable.

He brought his knees up to his chest, looking away again with his cheeks burning bright as he spat out standoffishly, “I’m a b-bl-blood-traitor.”

“How do you figure?” Azira asked, thoughtfully.

Crawly scowled at him, crossing his arms over his chest, but much to his surprise and discomfort, the blonde’s composure didn’t change a bit in response to his distant, dry behavior. Finally, after another several moments of realizing the older boy wouldn’t leave him alone until matters were sorted, he started talking.

“If you must know, all the reasons they said. I’m the only Hufflepuff from a family of over a millennium of Slytherin Crawly’s. My favorite and best subject is bloody _ Herbology _. I’m shit at dark magic. I don’t want to serve the Dark Lord. I don’t want to live in a world where everyone’s a pureblood, but I can’t be one either. I’m not bad enough. I’m not good enough, either. My family despises me. They don’t want me. I’m everything they didn’t want me to be.”

“I see, that does sound very difficult,” Azira said empathetically, “But I don’t see how that makes you a Blood-traitor.”

Crawly looked up at the boy again, gaping. It took every ounce of his strength to be nasty to this person who made his heart do such strange things, “Are you daft? Did you even listen?”

“I did,” the boy guaranteed, unbothered by the attitude, “I heard you’re a good person. One that has the potential for kindness, loyalty, and dedication. I heard that you’re passionate about things your family were never brave enough to explore before, and that you don’t wish to extend the tradition of hating those that aren’t like you. Your blood doesn’t belong to the Crawly’s, it belongs to you, Anthony.”

He could swear his heart was speeding up, and Crawly hugged his knees tighter, trying to put pressure against his chest so it would bloody well stop before the whole school heard it.

“So... I j-ju-j-_ just _ s-sss-stop caring that I failed every one of my parents’ exp-expec-expectations? Every one of everyone else’s?”

“Well… the way I see it, Anthony, no one else deserves to have any expectations of you,” Azira said. This shattered Crawley’s world. He looked up at him, desperately confused. The older boy offered a gentle smile, leaning down to look Crawly in the eyes through the dark glasses. Again, the sensation of being _ seen _ made Anthony’s bones shake. His prefect continued, “Perhaps you should spend less time looking back on what people who aren’t there expect of you and instead ask what you expect of yourself. What do you want? Who do you want to be? Because as far as I’m concerned, Anthony, you get to tell people who you are. They don’t have the right to decide for you.”

The boy gazed, mouth slightly ajar, at the person- no, the angel in front of him- here all this time, but only appearing when Crowley needed him most. He scrambled for words, for questions to ask the celestial being before he vanished from Crowley’s presence once more.

“W-wh-erm…what do I do? I’m a _ Crawly _” he finally managed, helplessly.

Azira pursed his lips in thought, dedicating genuine thought to giving the floundering boy a good answer, “Hmmm… Well I’d think... You don’t have to be a Crawly. You can make a new name for yourself. You can find a new family. One that loves you for who you are instead of resenting you for who you’re not. You’ll choose one. You’ll make friends. You’ll visit them on holiday. You’ll find love. You’ll wonder how you got along without the people you build relationships with,” he offered, “you have so much to offer the world. Choose who you want to be, and who’s worthy to witness it.”

Words failing him after several moments of soaking in the advice, he nodded in understanding, defense mechanisms torn down by the penetrating gaze. Azira smiled, so warm it heated Crawly like no fire in his life ever had.

“Then, good luck, Crawly,” he said, raising to meticulously dust the grass off his trousers and take his leave. After a few steps, he halted, turning back to the pureblood and tacking on, “And by the way, my dear. I know it goes deeper than aesthetics, but you do have truly beautiful eyes.”

A kind of magic Crawly had never felt before swept around him, it felt as if someone had let loose a platoon of pixies in his chest. Goose pimples coated his whole body, and he stared in awe after the boy who held the sky in his eyes. He could swear an energy was spiraling around him, making him feel lighter than he ever had in his life. For once, he tasted a freedom he never knew before. For once, he felt the potential for what he could be, for the possibility of what others could _ see _in him, instead of the weighty guilt of what he wasn’t.

Later that night, in the library, Crawly sat in the library with a table full of Hufflepuffs for the first time in his academic history, making them laugh for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes. This came as an incredibly pleasant surprise to Heller, who had worried so deeply for her solitary friend the last two years.

“Found some other P-P-Piss-Poor Purebloods to socialize with?” Ligur asked in passing, gaining a laugh from Hastur.

“Gone native, have you? Meanwhile I have all the proper pureblood friends I could ever want,” Hastur replied, trying to appear brave as Valencia narrowed her eyes at him in a way that could only be described as feral.

The table and the duo alike fell silent, Heller was stopped in her tracks from standing up from the table, and none of the students of any house knew how else to react to the fact that the tip of Hastur’s nose had absolutely just extended two inches. The Slytherin boy looked concerned as Crawly and Val finally erupted into laughter together.

“Oh shut it, you filthy blood-traitors! You’re dirt beneath my feet, you hear me?” his nose extended yet again, and this time, true panic set in.

“What’s happening?” Ligur asked, dumbfounded.

“Oh, I don’t know! Just _ get out of my way _,” Hastur cried, shoving past him. The entire table of Hufflepuffs burst into uproarious laughter. From across the room, Crawly caught a set of intelligent blue eyes glimmering at him from over a book that had to weigh at least 15 pounds.

‘_ Thanks _,’ he mouthed, remembering the hex Azira had casted that ‘hadn’t worked’.

One blue eye winked at him, before the set disappeared back behind the hardened leather book. The younger Hufflepuff didn’t look away.

“-Crawly, Anthony, AJ, Tony, Crawly, AJ-” Anthony was oblivious, not realizing Valencia had been waving her hand in front of his face and calling different variations of his name for a solid 30 seconds. She was currently squinting in a perplexed manner at the dreamy expression on his face. Realizing she wasn't about to get his attention, she slid his glasses down the slightest bit and followed his gaze, eyebrows raising when she found its target, “Why are you making cow eyes at Fell?”

“Because he’s an angel,” Crawly replied instantly. It was a statement made with more certainty than he’d ever had in his life, and as such it came with no stutter, no hesitation, and no insecurity.

After an initial look of shock, a manic grin began to take over Val and she tilted her head at her adorably infatuated best friend, “An Angel, huh?”

“Yesssssss,” Crawly hissed, looking more relaxed than he had in the two years she’d known him. His gaze didn’t waver, and it hardly would again for two years to come, “Angel.”

Over those two years preceding Azira’s graduation, Crawly never managed to have a conversation longer than “would you pass the butter, Angel?” with the object of his affections ever again. But he could live with that. That one encounter had been enough to last him a lifetime. Lucky for him, he didn’t have to go that long- instead, he only had to wait twenty-five years.

* * *

October 20th, 2018 - Present Day

“Here you are,” Anathema said cheerily, handing Azira a potion. The librarian looked at her curiously, and she followed up with a minimalist elaboration, “Crowley’s going to want that tomorrow. He’s had a rough day. You should bring his birthday present along, too.”

Her friend easily deduced she had foreseen this, as neither of them had seen the eccentric professor for the whole of Saturday despite that they’d all had plans together at Hogsmeade. Crowley had never stood them up before.

“Right, of course,” Azira nodded dutifully, navigating to his office to grab the package meant for his friend before making his way to Crowley’s office and knocking politely on the door. No answer. He waited a moment before knocking more forcefully, still to no avail. He prepared to assume that Crowley had stayed in bed all day (during some previous, very dire occurrences, the man would sleep three days straight) before his third knock resulted in a groan from the other side of the door.

Professor Fell opened the door, immediately freezing at the sight of parchment thrown all about the room and several empty bottles on the desk which Crowley was slumped over, asleep, cheek sticking to a piece of ink-spattered paper. It was clear the Herbologist had thrown a fit in his office before indulging an attempt to drown out his sorrows.

“Oh Dear,” Azira expressed, moving to take a step forward and crushing a deeply abused and crumpled letter under his foot. He hesitated before picking it up, glancing cautiously at his sleeping friend. Reading someone else’s mail wasn’t strictly _ moral _, but if he could figure out the root of Anthony’s pain, perhaps he could understand better. Professor Fell paced back and forth for several minutes, debating ethics versus duty with himself, until he finally decided to smooth out the letter.

_ Salutations, Professor Anthony J. Crowley, _

_ I’ve read your request for my contribution to your research thesis: _ _ The Medicinal Properties of Rare Rainforest Herbs in Correlation with Treatment of Cruciatus Curse-Induced Psychological Damage _ _ . I’m afraid I will be unable to lend my aid, as I find this topic a deeply problematic one. You cannot simply wish to magic away such deep trauma. It’s been twenty years that you’ve clung to this thesis, and I find it irresponsible of the Herbology community to continue humoring you at this point. I’m afraid I must insist that this is a fantasy, and as a reputable scholar, you mustn’t let such notions tarnish your career. _

_ I am aware of your work. You have made deeply impressive discoveries and contributions to the field of Herbology, and I’ve memorized your name, as I believe it will be a big one. Neville Longbottom has nothing but stellar recommendations for you. However, you simply must move on from this obsession, lest you drive yourself as mad as your subjects. Please don’t hesitate to reach out again for any other projects or if you choose to form a more realistic thesis. I would quite enjoy the chance to work with you. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Gethsemane Prickle _

Azira stood clasping in the letter in his hands a remarkably long time for a man who could read so quickly and with such deep comprehension. He read it again. Then again. A mixture of anger, sorrow, and pride tangled in his chest.

This was the research Crowley had been aching over not just since they met but for decades before, as well. Of course it would be so sensitive a mission. He wondered how Crowley had found this thesis, why he had clung to it. Whatever the rhyme and reason, he had dedicated himself to it entirely, and Fell could only see it fitting that the man’s research would be something so entirely motivated by selflessness and kindness.

Crunching the letter yet again in his hands, perhaps more aggressively simply because of his own anger at the woman, Azira dropped the ball of parchment in the waste bin and reached down gently to wake Crowley. He’d long since made a note to be careful of this, as the red-headed man was very sensitive and easily startled by touch.

“Crowley, wake up, Dear Boy,” he called softly. The pad of his middle finger touched the edge of the pureblood’s bony shoulder. He pushed his hand towards the base of the back of his neck, gradually increasing pressure until he was rubbing soothing little circles in Crowley’s upper back.

Finally, his colleague stirred, raising his cheek and blinking blearily at Azira, “hmmmmm? Wha’ time ‘sit?”

The librarian had to stifle a hearty laugh, attempting to pass it off as clearing his throat and then coughing as he saw the map of black ink stuck to the side of Crowley’s face, “It’s only nine, Anthony. Though, perhaps we’d best get you to bed.”

“No no no no nuuuuu!” Anthony rushed out, crossing his arms back and forth in front of him, “You’re here. I’m here. Le’s ‘ave a drink.”

Azira smiled sympathetically at his friend, “I’m not sure that’s the best idea, my dear, you’ve had quite a bit, it might make you groggy tomorrow and I know you have your get togethers with Miss Heller first and third Sunday of every month.”

“Oh _ come onnnn _. She’ll be there no matter how hungover I am, let’s party! Besides, that’s wha’ this is for, righ’?” he asked, swaying on his seat and plucking the potion from where it was tucked into the crook of Azira’s arm. He set it pointedly on his desk with a mischievous little grin up at his friend.

Without allowing room for complaint, Crowly grabbed a second glass from his desk, pouring himself and Azira a drink of bourbon.

“Yo- y- you knowww,” he drawled, “I had a dream ‘bout when we met.”

“Last year?”

“No, when we were lil’ brats, I was third year, you were sixth,” Crowley corrected.

Azira looked guilty, “I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“You wouldn’. There’s sooo many people who need ‘elp and only sooo many angels to ‘elp ‘em. I wasn’ special.”

“I’m sure that’s not true!” Azira insisted, “I was…. Distracted sixth year.”

“Diggory,” Crowley immediately identified, mumbling into his glassware with almost a tinge of bitterness if Professor Fell wasn’t mistaken.

“I was going to say my studies, but- well, yes,” he admitted, blushing as he recalled the romance that occupied his youth. He finally indulged himself, taking a swig of his bourbon, “how did you know?”

“Pppbbbbht,” Crowley expressed, the epitome of manners, “Who didn’ know?” He attempted to rest his sorrows on an elbow, smearing ink from his cheek all over his hand.

“Honestly, my dear, you’re a mess tonight,” the older man sighed, though the truth was he found Crowley painstakingly endearing. He was so hard working, so dedicated, so kind, and Azira felt a personal vendetta against fate that he had never seemed to be rewarded for any of it. From his vest pocket, he withdrew a handkerchief. Standing near the man, he took his chin in hand, wiping the ink off his cheek. The inebriated wizard’s stunning eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into the touch, cheeks pink from what Azira assumed was far too much alcohol.

“’m sad,” Crowley admitted, reaching up and holding the librarian’s hand still.

“I know,” Professor Fell sympathized, “Life has a way of trying to keep you down, I do wish you had something that could make you feel better.”

“I have you,” the man crooned, the corners of his mouth turning upright as he nuzzled the palm near his face.

Feeling his face heat up, Azira took his hand away, ignoring his whine of protest and taking Crowley’s ink covered palm to clean it off as well, “Of course you do.” He had discovered long ago that when his friend crossed the barrier between drunk and absolutely sloshed, he would start seeking out attention more openly. If he’d just be a little more open to it when sober, perhaps it wouldn’t gush out in such strong bursts, Azira suspected.

“’m destined to lose, Angel.”

“Lose at what, Dearest?” said angel asked, delicately. Finding the nearest chair and settling down into it, he picked up his glass of bourbon from where he’d set it on the ancient mahogany desk and directed his undivided attention to Crowley.

“Everything,” he said morosely, shooting back the remaining contents of his own glass as Azira gazed at him with a cocktail expression of concern and sympathy, “Can’t find the cure, can’t get the guy, can’t do a bloody practice duel, can’t keep a soddin’ greenhouse from falling to ruin. ‘s all over. ‘s bloody Armageddon.”

“Now, Crowley, you know that the greenhouse wasn’t your fault,” the blonde chastised, processing everything Crowley said a bit late, “What chap are you chasing after?”

“Don’t _ mock me _, it’s poor t- ta- tae- taste,” Crowley groaned morosely, pouring another drink and swirling it around.

“I would never!” Azira insisted authentically, the package he’d set near the door springing into his mind as he heard the record skip in the corner of the room, “In fact I do believe if I’m here, I should make an attempt to cheer you up.”

“Howsat?” a response was grunted.

“Well, I did get you something for your birthday next week, but I thought maybe it would do you good to receive today.”

Crowley paused everything, dramatically swinging his head upward to look Azira in the eye, squinting to ensure he was serious before grinning wildly. Seeing a happy look on his face brought the shorter wizard so much relief, he hadn’t noticed how much pain his heart was harboring from witnessing his friend’s grief.

“You’re not jokin’. What’d you do that for?” Anthony asked in amusement.

“For your birthday, as I said. Why is that such a surprise?”

With a shrug of his shoulders, Crowley gazed with unabashed adoration at Azira, setting his chin on his fist and taking a sip of his drink, “Haven’t gotten a proper birthday gift in years. 38 seems weird to start.”

“Well, let’s try it anyhow, shall we?” Professor Fell offered, gathering the square, flat package in golden paper by the door and handing it to Anthony. Azira found it undeniably adorable, the way he immediately shook it near his ear and then drew his fingers around the edges to feel what it might be like a child on Christmas.

“Records?” he asked, raising a brow at Azira.

“Oh, just open it, Anthony,” he fussed, nervously worrying his hands around his glass of bourbon.

With a grin, the gift recipient tore open the paper, pulling out a stack of about five records. Excited realization struck his face as he shuffled through them, “This is Muggle music!” The two had bonded that way, with Azira showing him the whole other world that was non-magical culture.

“Yes, I chose bands that I thought might suit your style, some of them are quite out of date, I do hope that’s alright,” he said, worry still in his voice, though Crowley’s engaged response made him feel quite a bit more at ease.

Crowley immediately rushed to the record player, popping on the first record by a musician called Elton John. A smile immediately hit his face as the music started and he took a seat again, leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers against his desk.

They spent well over an hour like that, playing Muggle music on Crowley’s record player, drinking far too much, and chatting about all matter of things- school days, students, faculty, Wizarding music, Muggle music, food, books, and much more. For the most part, the Herbologist’s mind was far away from the earlier misfortunes of the day.

“A-an-ann-and did you _ hex him on the spot? _” Crowley asked with wild inflection, disbelief thick in his voice as he grinned madly. Azira had been regaling him with the tale of a man who had who had tried to take him on a date, promising an excellent restaurant and taking him instead to a dirty pub.

“Not at first, I’d hate to judge by appearances, but when the waiter delivered when they called _ food _-,” he joked, grinning at Crowley’s cackling. Azira did the honor this time of flourishing his wand at the record player, switching it out for the next vinyl.

“_ She keeps her Moet et Chandon _

_ In her pretty cabinet _

_ ‘Let them eat cake’, she says _

_ Just like Marie Antoinette _”

“Woah woah woah wait-,” Crowley said, leaning back in his chair and raising his hands, affronted, “I though’ you said these were Meggle- Maggl- Muggle bands.”

“They are, Dear Boy.”

“Then why am I _ charmed _ by this man’s voice?” he asked, a cheesy grin on his face as he leaned forward.

Azira put his hand over his face, as if the bad pun had obliterated his brain, but his shoulders shook with laughter despite himself.

“This band is _ amazing _, Angel!”

“Queen.”

“Am not,” Crowley rebuked, “look who’s talkin’!”

Azira burst into laughter, “No- no, Crowley, that’s the band’s name- Queen. The singer is Freddie Mercury.”

“Wha’? Such a cool name for a Muggle! I like ‘im,” he said decidedly, enlivened by the music. Despite having drank much more, he seemed much less out of sorts than when Azira had found him. The librarian smiled as he watched Crowley swaying to the music, clearly intrigued.

Soon enough, the next sang came on, Another One Bites the Dust, and Crowley was immediately immersed.

“This one’s even better than the last one! I think you’ve found the music I’ve been searching my whole life for, Angel! Didn’ even know what I was missing,” he drawled, animatedly playing an invisible drumset on his desk despite never having touched a percussion instrument.

“I’m glad you like it, Dear Boy,” Azira laughed, eyes twinkling at the adorable scene playing out in front of him. His mother had loved music, she’d dedicated her whole life to it, playing all different kinds of bands and genres for her children and bonding with them over it. More recently, she’d even started writing her own music, finding an immense amount of happiness in it. She couldn’t make magic, perhaps, but she could make music. Seeing Crowley like this, so happy when he’d just been so miserable and all because of some old records- it helped Azira understand her love of it.

“Like it? I LOVE it!” Crowley exclaimed, pushing his rolling chair away from his desk and spinning in it with a loud, “WOO!”

Azira laughed as Crowley stood up, kicking his chair across the room to create what was a makeshift dance floor and commencing what Professor Fell was quite sure was the Worst Dancing He’d Ever Seen in His Life.

“Brew the potion!” Crowley hummed, shifting his hips side to side as his hands mocked stirring a cauldron.

“Now catch the snitch!” His legs pivoted side to side as he reached across himself with his left arm, grasping a nonexistent snitch, and then did the same with the other arm.

“You look like you belong in a disco,” Azira barely got out through his light-hearted laughing. He wondered if Crowley had always danced like this- because there was no way in Hell the blonde would have forgotten _ that _.

“Wha’s a disco?” Crowley asked as he began doing the Sheela Shuffle.

“Old type of Muggle dance club in the 70s. Terrible music, worse dancing.”

“Oi!” Crowley halted, smiling as Mercury’s dulcet tones began, ‘_ Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time _’, “Well then, Professor Fell, let’s see your moves.”

The song picked up its tempo, and Azira shook his head with a bit too much vigor, waving his hands in front of his chest, “Oh no, I don’t think so, I’m really not much of a dancer.”

A knowing grin came across Crowley’s face as he stopped his current excuse for a dance move, instead swinging an invisible lasso over his head. Azira stared at him, attempting to appear dubious, but shoulders shaking in laughter despite himself. He was ‘looped’, and the taller man was now attempting to draw him in closer. He heaved a greatly put-upon sigh, finishing off the last half of his glass, thanking God for alcohol, and standing. He side-stepped to Crowley in rhythm with the song.

“Ye-heahhh! Professor Fell coming to life! Ow!” Crowley exclaimed, taking Azira’s hand and spinning him.

They swung each other around for the remainder of the song, occasionally pausing for Crowley to throw in one of his signature dances while Azira laughed at him. At some point their hands became clasped, opposite hands on one another’s backs, and they stepped side-to-side, together.

They didn’t stop as the next song started playing, but they did slow down their dancing to the beat. It was more of swaying, now.

“Woo, I’m beat,” Crowley huffed, collapsing comically over Azira’s shoulders.

The other man laughed, holding his arms around Crowley and rubbing his back as they continued to sway drunkenly to the music in one another’s embrace.

“I do hope you’re feeling better,” Azira consoled him. Everyone assumed that being Crowley’s main support was so difficult, but it truly wasn’t. He was never down for too long, and he beat up himself far more than he ever did anyone else. When he was happy, there was absolutely no greater reward for the time and patience put in. The fact of the matter was that he was desperately misunderstood, but Azira wouldn’t rather have anyone else as his closest confidant and companion while employed here.

Crowley took an opportunity to consider his dance partner’s comment. Remembering the letter he’d gotten, the harsh criticism that he was an idealist with a pipe dream, and the possibility that he would never find the answer made him realize he wasn’t feeling better at all. If he was, it was because of Azira. It was because in this moment, held in his arms, he could pretend he was more than a colleague or a friend of convenience. He could pretend he was his lover.

The miserable man took a moment to wonder where it had all gone wrong. When they were kids, the older boy had told him to set expectations for himself. He’d done that. He’d set his expectations to become a world famous Herbologist, to win Azira’s heart and settle for no less, and later, to find a cure for the horrible psychological damage the Cruciatus Curse caused.

It hit him all at once- those weren’t expectations, the famous Herbologist Prickle was spot on in her letter to him. These were simply dreams that Crowley had built his entire life around, wishing on a star they would come true like an ignorant child.

The stupidest dream of all of them was his childhood fantasy about being with Azira. Even more foolish was the fact that he’d snatched it back up twenty three years later, still believing it was remotely possible. How could he have ever expected Azira to love him back? How could he have been so _ stupid _?

_ “There is no chance for us _

_ It’s all decided for us _

_ This world has only one _

_ Sweet moment set aside for us _

_ Who wants to live forever?” _

The velvety words drifting from the record player pierced Crowley like a dagger.

Azira had his eyes closed as they swayed together. It was pleasant, the liquor had his head buzzing and his body warm, and despite Crowley’s bony structure, he nestled onto the broader man’s shoulders quite nicely. It was comfortable. It felt natural. That is, until Azira felt the taller wizard’s torso quaking.

“Anthony,” he said in surprise, pulling away and quickly guiding Crowley to his chair, kneeling down before him.

Crowley’s hands flew to rub eyes as he shook, and he instinctively reached out for his glasses, jumping and nearly smacking Azira’s arm away when his hand was captured in his colleague’s own. He looked up at Azira angrily for refusing him his comfort.

“I know. I know, Crowley, you feel safer when you shut the world away. But the world isn’t here, it’s just me. So please, my dear, tell me what’s wrong?”

Crowley’s face twitched as he desperately tried to keep it straight, and he looked down at the hand Azira was holding.

“It’s all been a waste,” he croaked, “whatever I set out to do, it’s never going to happen. I’m trapped.”

Azira slowly closed his mouth, soft eyes opening up like clouds parting for Crowley’s own watery golden pair.

“Crowley,” he said gently, taking the hand he had managed to grab and holding it in both of his, “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“Just listen to me,” Fell pleaded, satisfied when Crowley sighed, rested his head in his free hand and looked at him, visibly holding back tears, “The stars have to wait lightyears for their light to be seen. They must do years of hard work before anyone can acknowledge any of it. And yet they’re more loved and beautiful than anything. I think you’re like that, Crowley. I know you’re tired. I know you’ve put in so many years of work and believed beyond belief, but please don’t stop now. In the sky I see, you shine brighter than any other. Give it a chance for your efforts to find purchase, just a little longer.”

Crowley looked at him desperately, swallowing hard and wiping his eyes yet again. He stopped averting the gaze of those beautiful eyes, gazing into the clear blue sky that existed within them. Not referring to his research even remotely, he asked, “Do you really think it’s possible? Should I really keep holding out?”

“Good things come to those who wait,” before Crowley had the opportunity to scoff, he followed up with, “I really do believe that. And more than that, I really do believe in you. Have I ever led you wrong before?”

Anthony was starstruck. Just like twenty-five years ago, he’d crumbled in front of the other man. And just like twenty-five years ago, the angel had knelt before him, uplifted him, and set him forward on a brighter, more beautiful path.

A path of hope.

“No,” Crowley answered definitively, smiling weakly at the most beloved creature in his life, “You never have.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on Wednesday.  
Also ty so much to @crowleysnek on Twitter for the cute dueling Azira art! Go check it out here: https://twitter.com/crowleysnek/status/1176977129373884416?s=19
> 
> Find me @Get_Wrexed on twitter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio of professors celebrate Hallowe'en. Azira puts on a show for the students during the feast, but unwelcome visitors cast an air of danger over the night.

The Great Hall had a minor amount of Hallowe'en decorations, but nothing close to the elaborate dressings that would don its stone walls and high arches later in the evening. Currently, beautiful orange, black, and purple streamers fluttered over the windows and between the high house banners, which had all been altered to depict various supernatural scenes. The enchanted ceiling cradled a clear midnight sky, stars twinkling and moon full. 

None of the students seemed to be appreciating the beautiful hall, however. Warlock wondered at this as he took his place at the Hufflepuff table near Violet Bitterwood and several older students. His little gang of Gryffindors had not yet come to breakfast.

“Happy Hallowe'en,” he offered, receiving a couple distracted grunts in turn from the older students.

“Hap-p-happy H-Hallowe'en,” Violet greeted back, offering a shy smile and scooting the toast closer to Warlock after she noticed him eyeing it.

Their seniors were all staring, transfixed at the door, and Warlock couldn’t help but wonder what they were waiting for. A quick glance around the vast room made his curiosity burn brighter, as several students from other houses and even some ghosts seemed hypnotised as well. Everyone was wearing their student hats to mark the holiday, making the sport of staring at the door much more competitive as they tried to peer over and around the obstructions. After a moment, Warlock realized Violet must be curious alongside him, as in their unknowing, they both tried to solve the mystery by following suit. 

“Happy Hallowe'en!” Adam’s voice rang out, and the distracted older Hufflepuffs finally paid attention to what was happening, groaning and voicing loud grievances as the four Gryffindors of the five The Them shoved everyone else down to sit with Warlock at his house table. 

“Oi! Go to your own table!” voiced a disgruntled fourth year several bodies down that had been crowd-surged away from his breakfast plate. 

“Stuff it! Banners are gone, see? We can sit where we well please!” Pepper snapped. The other four boys nodded behind her in solidarity. With much groaning and grumbling, the students returned to their previous state of gaping at the door and haphazardly grasping at food to munch on.

“Uh…. everyone’s turned undead,” Brian remarked with the most minor of observation. 

“Is something going on?” Wensleydale asked Warlock, quietly, “can they hear us?”

Adam tested it out, “Gryffindor’s the superior house.”

“We can hear you just fine,” Fawley the prefect groaned, not bothering to look at them as he strained his neck to look around the crowd of heads in front of him. 

“Is there going to be a parade?” Warlock asked, genuinely.

“Oh yes, they’re going to bring in an entire band, with a troupe of skeletons dancing behind them and candy exploding everywhere,” remarked a third year boy, Coriander Talpin, with what he thought was a generous amount of sarcasm. 

“Really?” Warlock, Adam, and Brian asked in unison.

“No,” Talpin responded flatly. 

“Then what’s everyone waiting for?” Pepper pressed, hating not to be in the know.

“Professor Crowley,” Bernadette Blishwick sighed dreamily. 

The Them shared a puzzled glance, wondering what made today so special a day to see Professor Crowley. 

“Why?” Adam finally asked.

“It’s Hallowe’en,” Fawley finally responded. He didn’t bother with additional information, as if that explained everything.

“It is,” Wensleydale agreed, matter-of-factly, “What’s that got to do with it?”

No one bothered answering them, they looked to Bitterwood, who gave a shrug showing she was fumbling in the dark right beside them. 

The first years took to talking about the Festivities of the day instead, salivating as Wensleydale recounted all the treats and tasty goods that they served at the Hallowe’en Feast according to Hogwarts, A History. 

All at once, the quiet of the Great Hall burst into chatter, and their fifth year prefects acted up, Blishwick smacking Fawley’s arm repeatedly as her mouth and eyes shot wide open.“If I died now, I think I’d be okay with that,” Fawley groaned in response. The first years were overcome with curiosity, and they had to stand or strain to see what the fuss was about. 

A tall woman strutted down the center of the hall, hips swaying under her mid-calf length fitted black pencil skirt, fastened with a golden buckle around her waist. She wore fishnet tights and a black chiffon blouse beneath it, atop it all a fitted, flowing black robe with gold silk lining fluttered about with every step of her tall black snakeskin Louboutin heels. A dramatically brimmed black witches hat with a golden snake coiled around its base sat above her beautiful red curls. The snake was enchanted to slither about its perch. Golden eyes glanced at them from a distance. As the figure drew closer- seeming to head straight for Hufflepuff table- they saw her eyes looked akin to a snake’s. It still didn’t quite click with the first years until her dark purple-stained lips moved to express in an all-too-familiar voice, “Happy Hallowe’en, my Hufflepuff Hellspawn!”

“Happy Hallowe’en, Professor Crowley!” nearly the entire table chanted back. 

“Shove over,” she requested, casually waving a hand that donned pointed dark purple nails at Albert Knotts, who happily complied but seemed too devoid of air to manage a proper response. His professor settled in happily at the table, as if she belonged there.

“How are we all doing? Everything in order?” she asked, ecstatic to discuss the festivities of her favorite holiday.

“We’ve got everything for the haunted maze in order, the Slytherins came up with some really good ideas and the Ravenclaws already arranged all the spells and costumes we’ll need.” Fawley informed proudly.

“Excellent! And who’s got the goods?” 

“Well… I _ did _, but a certain prefect confiscated them,” Talpin murmured bitterly while glaring at Blishwick.

“Blishwick, say it ain’t so,” Crowley lamented, mock pouting at the fifth year prefect. She promptly choked on her breakfast, turning bright red as the professor turned her attention on her, “Do chew your food, girl, unless you’re learning to eat as a snake, in which case I would advise transforming first. Just speaking from personal experience.”

This did nothing to aid Blishwick’s complexion, she drank some pumpkin juice and cleared her throat, “Well… it’s just that it’s contraband.” 

“Ohhhh, come on, Blishwick! It’s Hallowe’en! You’re not gonna be a stickler for the rules on the most mischievous day of the year, are you?” she teased.

The girl looked down at her food and fussed to fix her short orange hair. She was bright pink and unable to meet the devious gaze of her professor, “Uh.. um… well I suppose… as long as it doesn’t get out of hand, I could give _ some _ of it back.”

“Wicked!” Talpin cheered. 

“There’s more than just the feast today?” Warlock finally voiced his curiosity.

“Loads,” Crowley grinned, “Older years always organize all kinds of games and spooky things for the younger years out on the lawns. Starts right after dark. But we teachers have something better planned for the Feast.” 

The first years burst into ecstatic chattering and theorizing about the events of the day. The older years looked fairly pleased. Adam seemed to be stuck on something from earlier in the conversation.

“Wait, so causing trouble is allowed on Halloween?” he asked.

“Don’t go telling the other professors, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s _ encouraged _,” Crowley purred with a grin.

“If I’d known that, I would have waited until today to let the garden gnomes in the greenhouse,” Adam joked.

The surrounding students grew absolutely silent, peering anxiously at Crowley to await her reaction. She stared blankly at Adam Young for a moment, and the boy grew pale, swallowing hard, before a grin slowly consumed his Herbology professor’s face and the redhead threw her head back to laugh uproariously.

“You’re a right cheeky little bastard, you know that, Young? You might just be alright,” she approved.

The boy seemed to relax into his seat, grinning sheepishly. Knotts looked jealous.

“Professor Crowley?”

“Mmm?” 

“Why are you dressed like that?” Wensleydale finally braved the question. 

“It’s Hallowe’en,” the simple explanation was given for the second time that day.

“No, I mean, in a skirt?” 

“Because I wanted to. Do you always ask questions with stupidly obvious answers and I just never noticed? Is Herbology the miraculous exception? Or is it only for today?”

Pepper found it fitting to pipe up, here, “The gendering of clothing, and the entire gender binary really, is an effort upheld by our patriarchally-reigned society to promote toxic masculinity and perpetuate a construct of privilege, oppression, and the concept of othering.”

“Sister, you’re speaking my language,” Crowley hummed approvingly, giving the girl a high five that made her appear quite pleased with herself. 

“Professor Crowley,” Fawley had been in a trance for the last several minutes of staring at his head of house but seemed to snap out of it at long last, “About this show Professor Fell is putting on at the Feast, what is it?”

“Aw, c’mon, Fawley. What’d be the fun if I just _ told _ you?”

“Will it be another duel? No one will shut up about Fell wiping the floor with Goodbody! I’m dying to see it for myself!”

“Sadly not,” Crowley sighed, matching disappointment with the prefect. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of deep green and smiled as she spotted Anathema standing at the doorway, scanning the contents of the Great Hall, “Well, I’d ought to be off. Remember, at least for today, do _ exactly _ what I would do.” 

The students giggled and waved, most of them donning dreamy expressions on their faces as their professor stood and took her leave. Many residents of other tables eagerly greeted her as she sauntered past. She gave a grin back that left most of them swooning in their seats as she made her way over to the other witch.

She too had embraced the pageantry of the holiday. Her dress beneath her robes was a black lace that breezed and fluttered about her. Over it she wore a rich, velvet green cloak with raven’s feathers adorning the shoulders. She also wore a wide-brimmed witches hat, the same green as her cloak with a long feather sticking out from the black ribbon wrapped around its base. On her feet were high-heeled, pointed black boots that Crowley found herself quite envious of. 

“Aren’t you a vision,” she hummed flirtatiously as she approached her friend.

Professor Device grinned back at her, offering a slow scan up and down the tall figure that while still willowy, had definite curves that she didn't on her masculine days, “Look who’s talking. You look absolutely beautiful, Crowley. No glasses today?”

“Well, if there’s any day of the year to be unabashedly spooky, yes?”

“I suppose that’s true. A nice change of pace either way. Happy Hallowe’en, and Happy Birthday.” 

“Happy Hallowe’en to you too, off to Hogsmeade we go. Shall we go collect Azira?” 

The Potions’ Master gave her a knowing grin she couldn’t quite decipher before shaking her head, “You go on ahead without me. I’ll meet you there. I have a couple last minute details for tonight’s show to iron out with Flitwick and McGonagall.” 

“R- eh, erm, right…,” she mumbled, debating how suspicious she should find her behavior before deciding it wasn’t worth the worry, “See you there, then.”

The trek to the library was a fast one, most of the students were outdoors, setting up for festivities, playing lawn games, at breakfast, or sleeping in. One stray Slytherin girl was so busy gaping at Crowley, she had to grab her hood to keep her from wandering off the platform the stairs had just moved away from. By the time Crowley got to the library, she was unsurprised to find it empty. Classical music drifted softly from Azira’s open office door. Old tomes stamped themselves back in at the front desk. Enchanted carts rolled between the tall mahogany shelves, and battered books shelved themselves. It was so peaceful like this, and while she personally favored more exciting environments, Crowley could understand why Azira called the book-laden haven home. 

Slithering along quite quietly to preserve the comfortable ambiance, Anthonia peaked into Azira’s office, leaning against the doorway and crossing her arms. Professor Fell was humming along quietly with the music, his upper right desk drawer pulled all the way out as he organized it. He wore the darkest blue Crowley had ever seen him in (the darkest shade in general, really), embroidered with shimmering silver constellations of stars that were enchanted to slowly drift about. His wizard’s hat matched perfectly, and beneath he wore a silver vest that was a great leap from his usual brown ones, a light blue bowtie perched above it. The redhead said nothing, simply watching for a while and marveling at how the contrast of colors made Azira’s halo of hair look even more angelic than usual. The sky in his eyes was a night-time horizon today, stars within glimmering even brighter than the ones on his robes. 

Quite some time passed before Azira noticed there was another presence in the office. He glanced up at the figure waiting at the door and did a double take. His face immediately flushed pink, and he nearly fell downward as he accidentally yanked the drawer out of the desk in his surprise. Crowley raised an amused eyebrow, unable to contain a smug and flattered grin. 

Azira cleared his throat, fumbling to place the drawer back where it belonged before smoothing his robes self-consciously and walking around the desk to face the Witch before him. Much to the Herbologist’s pleasure, the blue eyes took an invigorated journey up and down her tall figure, soaking in and dwindling a bit long in certain places: her calves, her hips, her waist, her throat. 

“Crowley! You look- well, I must say, you- you look-,” he began, his eloquent mastery of words evaporating from his lips on the spot. For the first time in Crowley’s two and a half decades of knowing him, it was Azira’s turn to stammer. 

“Bewitching?” Crowley offered with a grin, posing seductively against the door frame. 

“I’m afraid that doesn’t begin to cover it, Dear B- Dear Girl,” he caught himself, making Crowley’s heart flutter at both the consideration and the apparently quite genuine flattery, “You’re an absolute vision. Happy Birthday.”

The pure-blood was over the moon, offering such an authentic smile it made Azira’s knees even weaker than they already were- a feat he had been sure just a moment ago was absolutely impossible.

“Happy Hallowe’en,” Crowley countered as soft as her heart felt, “Shhh-eh-s-shall we be off? A new cafe just opened, I thought you might like to give it a go. They have crepes.”

“Crepes!” Azira said excitedly, and the snake-eyed Witch was suddenly quite remiss that the Wizard’s thoughts were now far and away from the glamorous figure before him. 

The walk to Hogsmeade was slow and relished. The weather was a bit overcast, but the cheer of the students setting up different activities on the grounds made it feel very bright. Everything looked technicolor to Crowley, who was so accustomed to the tint of her sunglasses.

“Well done, you lot!” Crowley called to a couple seventh year Herbology students who were using a growth charm to form the hedges for the haunted maze. They beamed back at her, waving ecstatically. 

At some point there was a wolf whistle as the pair walked past, and Azira turned to scold said student about the inappropriate nature of objectifying a professor, however all parties were looking away and appeared entirely innocent. 

After they were a ways away from the grounds, the blonde offered his arm to his companion, and it was eagerly taken. They walked slowly, Anthonia staggering them side to side as she went out of her way to step on crunchy looking burnt orange and deep yellow leaves littered upon the walkway. Azira found this very endearing.

“So, Professor Fell, how did you come up with this genius performance of yours tonight?” Crowley broke the comfortable silence. The Wizard looked pleased she’d asked.

“Oh, my family used to put on something similar for the children when I was young. I get my love of books from my father, and he used to wind the most fantastical tales. Scary stories were his favorite challenge. My aunts and uncles would use levitation spells to manipulate objects, casting shadows to provide imagery. It’s quite immersive and exciting, really, I thought the students might like it, too,” he provided, earning a confused silence from Crowley, who seemed stuck on what to say. 

“Oh dear, do you suspect they won’t?” Azira asked.

“No! It’ll be a roaring success. It’s just… I.. erm.. I thought your p- pe- p- _ parents _ were… erm… you know… Muggles,” Crowley managed out in a way she prayed wasn’t horribly offensive. 

The Wizard looked almost amused at the Witch’s stumbling over courtesy, “Oh, yes, well- sort of. We celebrated Muggle Halloween too, sometimes dressed up in silly costumes and begged for candy or watched scary marathons of old black-and-whites. My father’s a Muggle, so he took great joy in it. Of course he liked learning about Wizarding Hallowe’en, too. My mother’s from a Wizarding family, she’s just…”

“A squib?”

“Non-magical.”

Crowley turned pink, unable to be more embarrassed if she’d shoved her entire foot into her mouth.

“I- erm, I d- di- didn’t m-mean... ssssorry,” she struggled out lamely. Azira kept his calm without difficulty. Something occurred to Anthonia quite suddenly, “Wait- then why did people call you- well, you know.” 

Azira took a moment to appreciate Crowley’s discomfort with the word despite her upbringing grooming her to use it liberally, “Well, it’s not exactly the best retort you know? ‘I’m not a mudblood, my mum’s just a squib!’ Besides, I preferred to have insults targeted towards me rather than my mother.” 

“Sorry,” Crowley said again out of a lack of a better alternative, feeling quite embarrassed about the whole conversation. 

“Honestly, my dear, don’t be. I know you never uttered a foul word about it. Besides, it’s not as if you fared much better. Opposite sides of the same coin, really,” Azira consoled his friend, who had never learned how to navigate conversations about Muggle families other than a general distaste of prejudice towards them.

The taller of the pair appreciated that her companion considered them remotely close to being on the same coin. 

“How did you celebrate Hallowe’en as a child?” Azira offered, pleased when this rocketed his friend directly back into an excited and less anxious energy. 

“Oh! We did loads. Didn’t have any siblings, parents couldn’t manage more after me, but had dozens of cousins, and Merlin’s Beard that must have been where I got my affinity for playing pranks. They had loads of new ones, every year, and they set up the old sheds and farmhouses to be haunted houses for us younger kids. Probably why I’m so invested in the haunted maze this lot makes for younger years. Every year they tricked us into wandering in there. We knew they were up to something but they always _ got us anyway _.”

Crowley went on and on the entire way to Hogsmeade, and the librarian soon realized that what she was sharing was almost exclusively the entirety of her positive childhood experiences. He gained a little more clarity on why the day was so special to the pure-blood. 

By the time they finally reached the tiny town of Hogsmeade, Crowley realized with some embarrassment how long she’d been raving. This was never of any concern to Azira, who quite enjoyed getting Anthonia onto a topic she wouldn’t shut up about. The little town also seemed to be preparing for the festivities. Garlands of Autumn leaves lined the cobblestone walkways and children too young to attend Hogwarts played in the streets on low-flying broomsticks. The smell of apple cider lingering in the air tempted even Crowley to indulge. She hadn’t grown up in a small town, hadn’t ever really even gone to one on holiday, but she did fancy the idea of a home somewhere more secluded with a tight-knit community that wouldn’t make her miss Hogwarts so much during long summers.

The two friends debated if they should indulge in business or pleasure first. After some deliberation, they decided to go complete their separate business- Azira at the bookstore and Crowley at the botanist- so they might wait for Anathema before eating. The little shop Professor Fell entered alone was cozy, and smelled even more of parchment, ink, and leather than his library. It did utterly remind him of the bookshop he called home in his summers and holidays, and a bit of homesickness panged in his chest. 

“Professor Fell!” called the sweet elderly woman, Madame Magpie, who was always eager to see her best customer. Azira alone made up nearly 9% of her annual business. The pair gushed over recent reads, discussing potential options for the next book of their Hogsmeade book club, and Madame Magpie enthusiastically showed the Hogwarts professor all of her new stock- which was always someone else’s old stock. He never could leave with less than five ‘new’ books, harping about saving them as if they were homeless puppies. An interesting book on the successful hybrid production of plants boasting entirely different properties caught his eye and he bought it for Crowley. Perhaps he’d already gotten her a gift, but it didn’t seem right not to give her something on her actual birthday. 

With a good deal of surprise, Azira realized it’d been over an hour and a half that he’d been in the tiny shop. Typically Crowley finished her own business in less than an astonishing ten minutes, and would nap on the armchair near the back of the bookstore until her companion was finished. Out of an abundance of concern, Professor Fell made his purchases and said his farewells, making his way over to the storefront overflowing with a variety of fauna. 

He shuffled into the shop, disconcerted as he didn’t see the shopkeep, Timothy Greenhorne, at the counter. Azira had only been inside the store a handful of occasions when Crowley needed an extra pair of hands to carry her purchases. While peering at a very strange plant with pods oozing a blue, lumpy pus that made his skin crawl, he heard soft murmurs near the back of the store. Navigating about the shelves of strange gardening products, he found Crowley sitting with Greenhorne, a tall man with dark hair and a well groomed beard, in two armchairs by a hearth near the back of the shop. 

The blonde instantly sensed something amiss, as the Herbologist was sitting with uncharacteristically impeccable posture, right leg crossed tightly over her lap. The shopkeep was leaned forward into his space. A strange, foreign burning that Azira hadn’t felt in years crept into his chest, and as he shifted to better observe the scene, he saw the man’s hand grasping Crowley’s calf, thumb rubbing the skin under the hem of her skirt. 

Several overwhelming urges overcame Azira at once: to grab Crowley’s hand and drag her away, to point his wand at Greenhorne’s hand and inflate it to the size of a balloon, and most strongly, to leave Crowley there and storm back to the castle, abandoning their plans that were apparently the last reason his friend had agreed to come to town. That was, until he saw the absolutely forced and pathetic excuse for a smile on the witch’s face. The discomfort she felt was practically tangible. It couldn't be more out of character for Crowley to pretend to feel any way she didn’t, and as such, she was an atrocious actor. 

Azira took a deep breath, returning to the front of the shop, gathering himself, calming the surge of jealousy that had reared its ugly head within him, and then approaching to rescue his friend with a much heavier step. 

“Crowley!” he called out, doing his best to sound unaware of what was going on at the back end of the shop. 

“Over here!” came his friend’s obviously over-eager voice.

“Ah! There you are! Just wait until you see what I’ve found at Inkspell, Madame Magpie had dozens of new books in and the best recommendations.” 

As soon as he was around the corner, Crowley was flush to his side, and Azira had to wonder if what he’d witnessed had been some kind of secret based on the speed of the witch’s response.

“Really? Fascinating, Angel. Love to hear all about that. Well then, best be off, places to be, people to see, plants to profess about. Never have any downtime, we Hogwarts professors, eh? Much too dedicated to our students. Oh- see you around, Greenhorne. Ciao!” she spat out at an impressively rocketing place as she shoved the wizard she was a bit more fond of out the front door. 

“Whew, thanks for the rescue, Angel.”

“Dear Girl-”

“Now where’s Anathema at? What’s she done? Fallen off the face of Scotland?”

“Crowley-”

“Ah there it is, Moonlight Cafe, and there’s Anathema, how convenient.”

“_ Crowley _.”

The peering brown eyes of their Potions Master friend watched Crowley curiously as she hustled over to her like she was being chased. A look at Azira’s demeanor made her realize what she must be running from. 

“Anthonia-”

“L-llll- eh- lovely to see you, Anathema, Darling, that green looks even more remarkable in this light, you know that?” Crowley asked, grabbing Anathema’s arm and unceremoniously shoving her into the cafe. 

“Anthonia, you really mustn't put up with it if someone’s making you feel uncomfortable.”

“Ah great! Let’s practice exercising that right now, and drop it. Where shall we sit?”

“It’s not like you to worry about letting someone have a piece of your mind.”

“Inside? Outside? Inside, lovely,” Crowley continued on, leaning over to grin at the blushing hostess before she lead them to a nice little table in the corner of the small cafe. Anathema followed after silently, greatly amused at the interaction and wondering what Azira had seen that he hadn’t been meant to.

“Of course, my dear, that’s not saying it’s anything resembling your fault.”

“_ Angel _,” Crowley groaned, finally breaking down as she slunk into her puke-green paisley seat. They’d been left in privacy with their menus, “it is my fault. ‘Course it is.” 

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” Azira asked patiently, relieved that his incessant fussing had found purchase.

“Came to Hogsmeade last month, had a bad day, decided to drink it off in company. Got shit faced, stumbled home with Greenhorne, shagged. Now he won’t come off it, and if I tell him to shove off I’ll have to spend my Saturdays going three towns over whenever i need any last-minute supplies. So, moral of the story- don’t sleep with your supplier. Watch out for that Madame Magpie, Azira, her entrancing wiles will bust your book club dynamic to bits.”

Anathema looked delighted that such an experience had come to her in such a short amount of time without her speaking a single word. Azira looked beside himself with worry and a hint of something unintelligible . Crowley grimaced at him pointedly before rolling her eyes and thanking the waitress when she poured her coffee. She drank it black, holding the mug to her mouth while calmly averting both friends' looks of judgement. Suddenly she found herself remiss that she didn’t have her sunglasses.

“Oh, _ Crowley _-,” Azira started.

“_ What?” _ Crowley spat defensively as her composure popped with the tiniest pinhead, “Take your whole ‘Holier-than-thou’ pity spiel elsewhere, Fell, I ain’t buying.”

“I never!” Azira’s well-manicured hand rushed to his chest to show the indignation that the accusation had provoked. 

“How was it?” Anathema finally spoke up, enjoying the lunch with her colleagues very much so far. 

“What? Shagging Greenhorne?”

“Yes.”

Crowley waited for Azira to protest and was surprised when there was only silence, allowing her to answer.

“The man’s greatest passion is selling fertilizer in the middle of the highlands. How do you think it was?” she asked flatly, grinning a bit at the laugh Anathema awarded her misery with. She glanced at Azira’s face and stuck a finger in front of it, “Oh what is _ that _ if not pity?”

“Oh, no, my dear, now it is pity,” Azira responded sympathetically. The witch in black and gold squinted at him, slack-jawed, and the one in green was now beside herself with manic giggles, wiping tears away and trying desperately to regain her breath. 

* * *

“But every venture she had braved to reach this point- the dragons, the rituals, the rapids, the riddles and obstacles- it all paled in comparison to what she had awaiting her at Azkaban.” 

The giant carved jack-o-lanterns lining the walls spit bright flames, and nearly every student in the hall jumped out of their seat. A rush of excited whispers filled the room as green smoke now oozed out of the pumpkins, creating a more bone-chilling atmosphere to set the new scene in. The murmurs were silenced as soon as they came, and every Hogwarts student stared at Professor Fell in anticipation. 

_ The man knows how to command a room _ , Crowley noted with a couple shivers sparkling through her spine at the thought. It was hard not to observe Azira while waiting around for her cues. The wizard was an absolutely amazing story teller. When he’d originally pitched the idea of a _ spooky story _, Crowley scoffed at the idea. She couldn’t imagine a chance in hell where one thousand teenagers would listen quietly for story time. But alas, here it was before her. 

The garden witch wasn’t listening very carefully to the story. She’d heard it a couple times in rehearsal, and now she fancied watching the angel tell it. Occasionally she’d shift her focus to the students’ reactions, grinning smugly as she spotted The Them looking thoroughly entranced and clutching to each other's arms in anticipation. 

A giant shadow of their heroine, Elise Toadstool, was projected in a deep orange light over the left side of the teacher’s table. A green light in the middle displayed the shadow of cell bars. Over the right side of the table, a purple light sat unencumbered by shadow. Crowley stood behind its source at the back of the hall, readying her wand. 

“Our world contains many fantastic beasts: creatures of harmony incarnate, brutes and beasts, compositions of fantasy, and the darkest of them resided here; the guards of Azkaban- Dementors.”

The smoke rolling on the cold floor of the Great Hall turned dark and cloudy, and the scenes displayed faded from their bright colors to a dull greyscale. Crowley flicked her wand at a charmed piece of fabric and levitated it in front of the far right light, casting a hyper-realistic moving shadow of an emaciated figure draped in sheer, greasy fabric that wicked about it. Gasps of fear were risen about the room.

“She’d heard tales about the monsters. She’d heard they sapped the happiness from a room. They summoned forth the most dreadful memories of one's mind. With a kiss, they could steal the very soul from one’s body. While all true, none of these tales could compete with the tangibility of the dark void of hopelessness and inevitability that seeped deep into her heart, now.” 

While the room was silent, the energy radiating in the room was uproarious, it was… panicked, Azira realized all at once. Something felt amiss. He looked across the room to Crowley. 

The redheaded witch met the wizard’s gaze, but the urgency was lost on her. Had he forgotten his lines? A sharp pain radiating through Crowley’s jaw made her realize that she’d been clenching it shut. A soft crackling caught her attention, and she gazed to the window, which was slowly icing over. Glances thrown to the rest of the hall reflected the same situation with the rest of the glass panes. That was strange, had they charmed them to do that? A fierce chill filled the room, and the warmth of the holiday was sapped from it. A low hum from her Horned Serpant-horn wand core informed Crowley that something was, indeed, gravely amiss. 

Her panicked amber snake eyes delved into the sky held in Azira’s, and understanding quickly translated between them. The entirety of the teachers table jumped to their feet and started rushing towards the exits. 

“Back to your dorms,” Azira pressed eagerly into amplifying charm of his wand. 

The students didn’t respond, glancing at one another in confusion. Some mumbling was stirred. 

“Oh for Heaven’s sake! This isn’t part of the performance! Prefects get all students back to your dorms _ immediately _,” he instructed as he marched down the center of the room. 

This was enough to spring the students to action. Prefects immediately sensed the severity of the situation and started organizing their houses and leading them out of the room. 

Crowley, Anathema, and Azira all met at the door, seamlessly matching each other’s strides to run alongside one another to the main door. 

“Oi, Goodbody! How did they get past the wards and not sound the alarms?” Crowley barked ahead at Gabriel. 

“_ Someone _ must have dispelled them!” Gabriel yelled over his shoulder. 

“And shouldn’t a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, you know, _ defend _against that kind of thing?”

“Quiet your dog, Azira, this isn’t the time for barking,” the larger wizard said. 

They’d just gotten outside, leaving Crowley unable to show him her bite as they all scattered in different directions. The Herbologist slowed to a halt, looking around in horror as hundreds of dementors swirled and shrieked about the grounds around her. Flashes of blue went off, and Crowley found herself staggering backwards in fear as the disintegrating corpses floating in every conceivable direction surged towards her. She hadn’t the time to panic about when and how this had happened. There were no answers to be had now, regardless. Anthonia had little time to think about anything at all, really, as repressed memories stirred and rose up inside her, threatening to grasp her into a petrified, inescapable state.

Her grip on reality wavered as she remembered standing in this exact spot twenty years ago, wielding her wand with flashing lights sparkling at the edges of her vision. Immediately, the sound in her ears was unbearably loud. Panicked. Urgent. 

_ “Anthony! AJ, get UP!” Val screamed in his ear. _

_ “Fred! They’ve k-ki-killed Fred!” Crawly was broken to pieces in her arms, clinging to her sweater. _

_ “I know, Anthony, but we can’t stop! We’ve got to fight!” she sobbed. _

Crowley shook her head in an attempt to free herself of the memories, nails digging into her scalp. She braved a glance around at the other professors patronuses warding the Dementors back towards the barriers. That’s right, that’s what she ought to be doing. She reached for her own wand, but was paralyzed with fear as one of the beasts descended upon her. Hisses of _ ‘Blood-traitor! Blood-traitor! _’ started to infiltrate into the few unoccupied spaces of Crowley’s mind, echoing in every crevice. Her arms covered her head as she doubled over. 

_ “I’m trying! I’m trying but i’m s-sss-scared, V-v-Val,” Crawly managed out, crouching low with his best friend to avoid being hit in the crossfire of offensive magic. _

_ “Well, we’ve been scared before, yeah? Remember our first Quidditch match all those years ago? We thought we’d die of fear!” _

_ “I don’t want to die of b-b-bloody fear!” her counterpart yelled back desperately. _

A blue raven patronus swept before Crowley, plucking the Dementor that had nearly grasped her in its beak as it did so. 

“Crowley! Get up!” Anathema screamed from a hundred yards away as the raven swept back towards her. Crowley's slender hand shook violently as she raised her wand at the mass of monsters forming around her. While her cognition leapt wildly between present and past, responding to instinct was all she could manage.

_ “Then, let’s do now what we did back then!” _

_ Crawly laughed in awe and searched her green eyes through his watery own golden pair, “Blast it all and do it anyway?” _

_ “Blast it all and do it anyway,” she confirmed, a mad grin spreading across her face despite the tears of fear and grief running down it. _

And suddenly Crowley was there at that Quidditch match her third year. The feeling of victory and pride swelled in his chest as he and Val received their praise from their teammates and fellow Hufflepuffs. He pumped his fist in the air on his broomstick as he glided along, smiling down at the arena below his team. 

“_ Expecto Patronum!” _a great snake burst from the end of her wand, surging full-force into the group of Dementors before her and exploding into a great blue wave that burst them all back behind the barrier. 

The bewildered Herbologist regained her footing, standing still for a moment to ensure the rogue memories were under control before surveying her surroundings to see who needed help. Anathema and her Raven were doing just fine. Flitwick was doing good work off near the forest. McGonagall was nearly around the corner with everything under control, Azira was-

Crowley’s heart sank as she saw blue sputters coming from Azira’s wand. He leapt backwards. The foreboding cloaked figure in front of him reached out with both hands. Its fingertips were nearly brushing the librarian’s face. The wizard simply stood there, in a trance, limbs unmoving. 

“AZIRA!” Crowley screamed, lungs aching at the intensity she put behind it, “DO SOMETHING!”

The blonde seemed to break out of the pit of hopelessness he’d been slowly sinking into, recollecting himself enough to cast one burst of blue from his wand that just managed to repel a couple Dementors. This gained the attention of many more, and soon, Crowley was watching in horror as they all at once descended upon Azira. She was two hundred yards away. She would never get to him in time. Crowley heard the deafening palpation of her heart stop sounding entirely as she witnessed their opponents slowly begin feeding off the great love of her life. 

That was all she needed. Anthonia didn’t waste a moment throwing caution to the wind. She ignored every flashing warning in her mind. She banished every calculation of the space-time continuum and if it would tear her apart like tissue paper. She drew a remarkably intricate symbol with her wand and poured every morsel of her energy into it, clearly enunciating, “_ Conparco tempus!” _

In an instant, the world swirled around her, flexing and waning, changing colors and textures. Her lungs and heart continued, stopped, and slowed all at once. Sound was absent from the atmosphere. Crowley struggled to stay in a straight line as she ran towards Azira as fast as she could, limbs straining, breath absent, and steps silent. She desperately gathered all the happiest moments she’d ever had as she approached the hoarding dozens of Dementors frozen solidly in time and space.

She thought about that moment when she first saw the sky in Azira’s eyes. She thought about him winking at her from behind that book in the library. She thought about the reluctant little smile on his face when he realized he was stuck with Crowley last year. She thought about Azira asking if she was going to finish her dessert. She thought about their late nights of drinking, discussing everything and nothing at all. She thought about the way Azira saw and _ accepted _ her for who she was. She thought about them together, dancing in her office to that band named Queen.

In one movement, Crowley bounded in front of the man, continued the space-time continuum, and shouted, “_ Expecto Patronum!” _ The Red-Bellied Black Snake erupted from her wand again. It reared its head back, hissing as it wound up a deadly strike. The beast lunged viciously at the crowd of Dementors. All matters of screeches and squeals were released as the creatures fled, some of them finding themselves pursued by the great serpent.

Crowley wasn’t able to appreciate her work, as she was too occupied experiencing the most bizarre sensations of her life. Blood poured out of her nose and ears and also streamed back in. She fell to the ground and also felt herself raise upwards to her feet. Her heart beat backwards and her lungs unbreathed. She felt forty-five seconds of running, thinking, and feeling strike her body in zero moments. Her physical form tried to find its rightful place on every plane of dimension between where she’d stood then and where she stood now. Time and space destroyed and built itself one thousand times in one thousand different realities. 

The most astonishing part about standing on the precipice of each of these realities was that in nearly every single one, Azira leaned down over the place Crowley was sprawled out, fallen, on the ground, preparing to uplift her (or him, in many realities, or them, in some) again. He took many forms, many different appearances, and posed many purposes, but Crowley would know Azira in any universe. And evidently, Azira would know her too. Crowley’s brain finally stopped attempting to process the ineffable fabric of reality. As she lost consciousness, a new belief and definition of Destiny was breathed into her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sitting through the majority of this chapter being Hallowe'en fluff, fashion, and petty jealousy, I just had to self-indulge, man. Sorry for the late update!
> 
> Next update is Sunday.
> 
> Follow me @Get_Wrexed on twitter!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira is less than pleased with Crowley's death-defying stunt (and can hold a pretty wicked grudge). McGonagall calls a staff meeting to discuss dangerous recent events. Adam comes clean to Professor Device.

There were many attempts to sleep on Azira’s part, at first, but every night he would inevitably dream of the end of the Triwizard Tournament his 7th and final year as a student. In the crowded bleachers stood the attendants of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and Durmstrang Institute, side by side and cheering with a competitive vigor for their respective Triwizard champions. A moment later, in the center of the bright colored and festive arena, laid Cedric Diggory, dead. Azira remembered the deafening silence of confusion as if it’d happened just the day before. He remembered Harry Potter sobbing over the boy. He remembered the first urge to curse someone in his life as Cho Chang struggled, beside herself, against the staff to get to Cedric, screaming, “Please! He needs me!”

Azira would appear at Cedric’s side in the dream, a desperate temptation he had not been allowed during the actual occurrence. He would hold and kiss Cedric’s hand and stare, shocked and transfixed, at his pale, stiff fingers. He would rock back and forth, clutching the hand to his chest while whispering, “I’m here, Cedric, I’m right here.” It took him an achingly significant time to turn and gaze at his beloved’s face, to soak in the truth. But instead of the face of his childhood sweetheart, he would see Crowley’s, instead. The blonde would grasp his lean shoulders in disbelief. He would search every inch of the pale face and those empty golden eyes, devoid of life and transfixed into nothingness. Finally, he would whisper in terror, voice barely above a hoarse whisper, “Crowley?”

The figure wouldn’t move, its eyes wouldn’t waver, and for every moment Azira could remember the redhead’s energy and animation penetrating the atmosphere, the silence and stillness of him took an additional eternity to seep in, “Crowley, no! Not you, Crowley! It can’t be you! Don’t leave me! Please!” 

As quickly as he’d slipped into the night terror, Azira Fell would awake, sweating, crying, gasping for air, and would run to the infirmary. It happened so many times in so few nights, he finally resigned himself to remaining in the uncomfortable chair next to Crowley’s bed, insisting he refused to leave until his companion found consciousness. The steady rise and fall of the redhead’s chest brought him an incredible amount of relief and comfort.

The infirmary felt lifeless and cold. Azira had managed to sweet talk his way into coaxing more blankets from Madame Pomfrey for Crowley, knowing that if the man were awake, he’d never stop complaining about the temperature. The long room lined with owner-less beds resonated with emptiness. There weren’t even any portraits in here, as the nurse had long since declared their chattering would distract the students from their rest. Professor Fell couldn’t decipher if the emptiness felt so severe due to the only noise echoing the chamber being Madame Pomfrey’s harsh footsteps, or if it was because he’d never been in a room alongside Anthony where his friend hadn’t filled it with uproarious life. Either way, that married with his undying concern made it quite impossible to immerse in any distraction.

The librarian had brought with him a considerable amount of books to occupy his time, but Azira found very little purchase in attempting to indulge. He felt sleep deprivation tugging at the edges of his consciousness. At one point, when he looked at Crowley, he saw him spread out on the lawn, blood dripping from his nose and ears, already-delicate limbs seizing beneath him, unresponsive. The memory seemed to be burned into Azira’s mind like runes into wood after the Herbologist had appeared before him, saving him from the Kiss of Death. Crowley, proudly donned in her Hallowe’en best, had been so beautiful, vibrant, and _real_ when she’d stood between Professor Fell and the Dementors crowding around him. The now grey faced figure in the bed, deep purple shadows under their eyes, seemed so different from that fierce and vivid witch.

It was now Sunday, four days after the holiday. Azira was busy attempting to re-read the second paragraph of his page for the third time when a tired voice croaked, “Ah, thank Satan.”

The book was immediately flattened so it might allow brightened blue eyes to examine the exhausted professor before him.

“Thought I’d have to face my old man for a moment,” Crowley struggled to laugh into his exhale, grinning innocently in total lack of awareness up at his companion.

“Right, you’re feeling alright, then?” Azira had asked, almost transactionally. 

“Never better,” the Herbologist croaked, shaking hand raising to touch his throbbing temple.

“Excellent, then. I really do have a lot of work to catch up on. Do feel better, Crowley.”

Crowley’s brain was left spinning as his companion uncharacteristically didn’t fuss over him at all but instead stormed away before Anthony could even inquire after his plants.

Azira managed to avoid his friend for about a week, pretending he had work to catch up on, keeping his nose in a book, and occasionally repeating Crowley’s own words back to him.

He would sit next to him at meals. He would respond shortly to his inquiries and requests for conversation. Looking at Crowley, however, was just too much. Thus, for those seven days, Azira adapted to being remarkably interested in whatever he directed his eyes at and keeping quite busy with whatever minute tasks he could think of.

The Herbology Professor had always been almost endearingly ignorant and uninhibiting towards Azira’s attempts at discretion and secrecy, but the lengths this disregard went onto seemed to grasp even his short attention. 

“Helluuuu?” Crowley called for what felt like the hundredth time, throwing himself in Azira’s way as he reorganized a section of the library by the wizarding variation of Dewey Decimal. They were in the far reaches of the second floor of the massive room. The librarian had managed his way back there the moment he spotted the animagus trying to slink in unnoticed with the clear intent to launch a sneak attack. Crowley looked much healthier than he had when he’d awoken in the infirmary, and he appeared to be fully recovered, not that Azira had bothered to look at him.

“If you don’t mind,” the blonde countered smartly, waving his wand and reorganizing a staggering amount of books via a dizzying method as he shoved past, causing the object of his irritation to stagger before regaining his footing.

“I d-d-_do _mind actually,” the taller wizard murmured before heaving a sigh, “Azira, _please_? Just talk to me? I’m actually b- eh, b-begging you.”

The stutter caught the soft spot of Azira’s heart, which was most of it. It always did. If he hadn’t known the prankster’s mannerisms better, he’d be sure he did it on purpose. The warpath he was on across the library finally slowed to a halt. He sighed, suddenly becoming very interested in the books on his cart as he thumbed their spines and gazed down at them, “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to explain- well, that!” Crowley rebutted, nearly crawling over the trolley between them to shove his finger intrusively in Azira’s face, “Why won’t you look at me? It’s been days!” 

The librarian promptly smacked the hand out of his face with a huff and continued on his way, reorganizing another set of shelves, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

_“Angel.”_

“Fellow associate.”

“_That’s_ what I mean!” the Herbologist pressed. Azira didn’t even need to look; he heard the pout in his colleague’s voice. Crowley followed aimlessly after his crush, hands deep in his pockets as if he could shove his insecurity into them, “What did I do?”

“_What did_\--,” the other wizard started to repeat in awe, nearly slipping up and looking at Crowley to scrutinize his audacious ignorance before stopping himself and returning to his icy demeanor, “Never mind Crowley, just leave it be.”

“N-n- eh- _no_! I’ve left it all week and it’s just gotten worse. I’ve gone and made you angry. Explain it to me.” He draped himself across the shelves opposite the blonde, attempting to cross his legs before he was bustled pointedly out of the way again. 

Azira bristled at the entitlement of the command. Sure, Crowley had been cast into the cold and abandoned by his pureblood grooming, but the privilege from it rang as strong and true as ever, occasionally. “Has it occured to you, Anthony, that I don’t have any obligation to tell you how I feel?” 

“That doesn’t seem fair if it’s about me.” 

“Who said it’s about _you_?” Azira snapped, ignoring Crowley standing blatantly in his path yet again and the uncomfortable squeezing he had to do to get past him, “Would you get out of the way? Honestly, Dea- Crowley.”

“Aghhhh, c’mon, I’m not daft! As I’ve said, you can’t look at me. You’re clearly angry with me. Hell, you didn’t even deny I’ve done something.”

“I’m allowed to experience my private emotions,” the librarian rephrased his aversion yet again.

“What emotions?” 

“Crowley!”

“Tell me!”

“Oh I don’t know!” Azira finally snapped, “Emotions over you nearly dying due to _my_ incompetence coupled with your own _compulsion_ to flirt with death. Curiosities about how and why on earth Dementors made their way onto Hogwarts grounds. Wonders if they might do it again and how in Heaven I might be able to summon a patronus before then. Anxieties about the fact that my best friend was secretly investigating time magic- _forbidden magic_ behind my back and what else he could possibly be hiding. I’m not stupid, Crowley. I know what that was. I saw what you did.”

His companion opened and shut his mouth, attempting as Azira spoke to initiate a rebuttal to each statement, to which Azira would hold up a hand and immediately render him silent each time. The librarian had never been angry at him in this fashion before, and thus the Herbologist struggled to find the best tone of response to offer. Not knowing any better, he settled on his default, which was always one of wit, “Behind your back? That’s not fair. When you were busy with check-out requests just last week a bunch of sixth-years built a snogging fort in the Obscure Artifacts section. Just because you weren’t aware of it doesn’t make it ‘behind your back’. I’m not hidin’ anything from you, honest.”

Crowley nearly believed this retort had been effective.

“They did what? A bunch of _which _sixth years?” Azira asked instinctively before realizing he was allowing his counterpart to change the subject, “Oh _never mind._”

Crowley paused, pushing his glasses on top of his head and spreading his palms to either side of the rolling cart to stop it from plowing him over before searching imploringly into Azira’s eyes, begging for acknowledgment, “I’m _sorry_, Azira. I am.”

The librarian paused for a moment, finally, for the first time in an entire week, resigning himself to gaze back into the eyes he’d grown so fond of. His heart momentarily ceased its aching and finally felt at peace, finding refuge in those warm golden pools. The sun was in those eyes, the stars too, and Azira felt a gentle urgency to stargaze every time he saw them. It was almost a challenge, remembering to look at him so severely despite his heart feeling so soft toward the wizard based on the familiarity of the scenery alone.

“You’re the greatest wizard I- I’v- v- ev- I-_I’ve ever known_,” Crowley managed out, blushing and forming a disgruntled pout as he fixated on Azira’s bowtie. Typically he had a bit more liquid courage when resigning himself to vulnerability. He was surprised when he braved a look upwards and found the storm in his friend’s eyes subsiding, rays of potential sunshine reaching out to him invitingly. He could neary feel the warmth on his skin, “So when I saw you struggling with a protection charm, I panicked. I knew something was wrong. You were afraid. I was afraid too, Angel, and so I didn’t think. I know that. I just… acted.”

Azira looked sympathetic and a bit guilty, leaning over his cart and looking honestly into Crowley’s eyes. He swallowed hard as tears welled up, fighting to hold them back.

“If any of us had reason to freeze up, it’s you. And you didn’t. I should have been stronger,” the blonde berated himself impulsively, finally letting his insecurities present themselves to the Herbologist. He looked down at the pages beneath him, slumping against the cart. The sensation of the other wizard’s cool, long fingers winding through his own digits was a small comfort to Azira, and thus he allowed it. 

“Azira… you’re plenty strong. I dunno another wizard our age that’s worked for the kind of strength you have, but that isn’t to do with anything. Summoning a patronus isn’t about strength…,” Crowley muttered anxiously, suddenly very wary of upsetting his companion. He didn’t want to press, and yet, there was a question burning in his eyes.

Azira finally built the courage and composure to answer it, taking a deep breath and squeezing Crowley’s hand for a moment before braving the elaboration, “When I think about my childhood happiness, it’s tainted by Michael and Gabriel torturing me. When I think about my times with Cedric, it’s draped in his death. And when I think about my adulthood, it’s marred by concerns of what I might have accomplished instead. I’ve never been able to summon a patronus. You’ve fared so much worse. I don’t know how you manage it.”

Gorgeous amber eyes peered into the depths of his sadness, learning to adjust to their unpredictable tides. This was a shocking admission coming from the man who’s nature was that of kindness, happiness, and love incarnate. Crowley’s voice was low, and softer than his love had ever heard it, “You almost summoned one, I saw it. You were nearly there, Angel. What did you think of?”

His voice carried an urgency of something akin to imploring. His eyes searched deeper than they’d ever dared to delve. 

The honesty of the words Azira prepared to say felt almost too fragile to release as his blue eyes soothed the intensity of Crowley’s amber, “I thought about us together in your office a couple weeks since, dancing to those records.”

The reptilian eyes bore wide, unmoving back at him, as if stunned. Typically, Azira was unbothered by this, but given the sensitivity of his last statement, he shuffled his feet and averted his gaze. 

“That’s alright then,” Crowley encouraged gently after a long pause, relearning how to breathe, and with much determination he proposed, “let’s make more happy memories like those.” 

Azira teared up as he absorbed the words. He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes, appreciating his companion blocking the glances of passing students.

“Yes, well,” he responded, suddenly remembering he was quite angry with Crowley and snatching his hand back, “That would settle things, if you weren’t _mucking about in forbidden magic_.”

Crowley snorted and made a ridiculous keening noise, rolling his eyes dramatically and throwing his arms above his head in total exasperation before staring deadpan into his friend’s face, “You’re impossible.” 

“Hmmm,” Azira responded, running his finger over the spines of a row of books and investigating their titles.

“You’re really going to make me grovel?” the taller wizard hissed in disbelief. 

“Hmmm,” the shorter expressed noncommittally, reorganizing these books as well.

“Wh-wh-eh...what will it take to make you forgive me?”. 

His friend found it more important to answer honestly than to continue his torture, and he sighed, gazing hopelessly at Crowley, “Promise me you’ll never do it again.”

The pureblood leaned over the cart of books, legs crossed behind him, and he twisted his face with a sudden sense of inner discord. 

“Angel,” he began, pleadingly, giving a coy grin that he hoped to be charming and yet knew already wouldn’t be charming enough, “Now how would I be me if I went and promised something like that? It’d positively wreck my reputation.”

Azira felt his face harden again, and his eyes immediately flicked away from Crowley, providing a sunny sky for a location decidedly elsewhere. 

“Hmmm,” he answered sternly, pushing his cart forward and re-committing himself to avoiding the other wizard’s gaze.

* * *

The typically inviting, warm staff room that offered a reprieve from teenaged nonsense was much less comforting today. Most professors were standing around it, leaning against the tapestries of the walls. Others perched uncomfortably on the edges of the cozy armchairs as if there were spikes sticking out the back of them. Dull light through the stained glass windows cast unenthused colors on the carpets. An anxious silence was occasionally permeated by nervous whispers and gossip from the entirety of the Hogwarts staff waiting in the room. 

“It’s ghastly,” Professor Trelawney whimpered, “the path I forsee is dark and full of terrors beyond what we on this mortal realm can comprehend!” 

“Is it?” Anathema asked dryly, nails digging into Crowley’s arm. 

“_Uhm, oww?”_ he hissed at her in irritation, jerking his arm away and smoothing the fabric of his expensive robes to ensure they were unscathed. The redhead had gotten no sleep, and a sleep-deprived Anthony was the most difficult Anthony to deal with. He had dark circles under his eyes and a tight-lipped expression that dared anyone to test him. The mug of hot liquid in his hand, reading ‘I’m a Boss-Ass Witch’ in sparkling black script, was quickly chugged down. An applewood wand was waved and the mug drifted away to refill itself before returning to his long fingers. 

“Sorry,” Professor Device mumbled, ”It’s just unbearable.”

Their headmistress swung the heavy wooden door open and entered, robes fluttering behind her. She waved her wand sharply to shut the door behind her and swiftly made her way to the center of the room, filled with Hogwarts faculty members. All at once, they raised eager inquiries. 

“Now, calm down, all of you. This is no way to have a proper meeting,” snapped Professor McGonagall, gazing severely over her staff as they all fell silent yet again, “I know this is irregular timing for a staff meeting, however given the dire circumstances I thought it prudent.”

The faculty watched and listened with an unwavering focus. The majority of them were only aware of one dire circumstances that had occurred of recent.

“We all know what happened the night of Hallowe’en. We still have no answers. There is simply no evidence that the barriers or alarms were ever dispelled to begin with and no word that any Dementors left Azkaban.”

“Are we to assume that they simply fabricated out of thin air?” inquired Professor Aurora Sinistra.

“I assure you, we have already contacted the Ministry to discuss launching a full-scale investigation. However I’m afraid something else has happened, and we must now focus on how to keep the students and their parents calm.” 

“Something else? Excuse me, Minerva, but why wasn’t I informed of this?” Gabriel asked.

Crowley invested all his concentration into withholding his snide as he answered, “Because I had it under control.”

“We’re trusting the Herbologist to protect the school now?” 

“Yes,” Crowley said, wrinkling his nose a bit and sneering, “Because the threat was one of Herbological nature, not Dark Arts. You forget each one of us here has an equal stake in the safety of Hogwarts.”

“A threat of Herbological nature?” Flitwick piped up in curiosity. 

“Filch woke me up last night over it, nearly lost his head, the Forbidden Forest seemed to-,” Crowley paused to yawn, unbothered by the dozen and a half pairs of eyes staring at him with intense focus, ”take on some type of sentience and started consuming the grounds with all kinds of nasty fauna. Aurora and Anathema helped me get it under control.” 

“No, Anthony, you helped us,” Professor Sinistra reassured assertively, “You knew every single method to force back every single plant, and then you were able to subdue them. If we hadn’t had your expertise at our disposal, the entire castle would be overgrown in dangerous fauna and the students would be in great peril.” 

“Has anyone considered, while Professor Cra- _Crowley_ knows how to subdue these fauna, he’s also the only one here who knows how to coax a reaction like that from dangerous plants to begin with?” Gabriel asked calmly, stepping forward in an attempt to take charge of the room with his confident presence and wide-spread arms, “Anyone know who or what else could get the forest to respond like that?”

“Now, Gabriel, I don’t think that’s quite fair,” Azira spoke up before allowing any of his coworkers to even consider the slander, “Or that this is the time to be throwing around wild accusations about our own colleagues. We should be banding together to discover what’s causing all this disarray.” 

Crowley felt a surge of gratefulness as his angel came to his defense. It was only this morning, after Azira had learned what happened with the forest, that he had started being considerate and kind towards his companion yet again. Crowley was left confused at how one act of heroism could get him into trouble and how another could get him out of it, but he wasn’t about to look a gift gryffin in the mouth. He was quite tired of being shunned, as it had begun to feel uncomfortably familiar to his childhood. In addition, he’d desperately missed their friendship and the librarian shielding him from Gabriel’s incessant contempt.

“Well said, Azira,” McGonagall agreed, “There’s little we can do now, save for wait for aid and guidance from the Ministry. In the meantime, it would be prudent to keep parents up to date on these occurrences, and prioritize focus on how we have proved ourselves quite capable of managing them, despite their mysterious origins.”

“And what of the students?” Professor Bathsheda Babbling inquired. 

“We shall commence the usual drill. In… past circumstances of unusual and dangerous events, we found it ideal to keep school life as routine as possible. This gives the students a sense of normalcy,” the headmistress advised.

“Profe- erm, Minerva, I- er- I was a student here all seven years of… you know, the unusual and dangerous events you describe, mind if I throw a thought in the hat?” Crowley spoke up, clearing his throat uncomfortably. It wasn’t that he was _afraid_ of McGonagall, it was just that he sometimes still felt like her mischievous student that she trusted as far as she could throw and would give detention at the drop of a pin. 

“Yes, Anthony, I suppose your perspective would be valuable here,” she allowed to his surprise and relief.

“Alright. I have to disagree. The ‘normalcy’ you’re talking about drove us mad. There were no distractions, nothing to look forward to, just anxiety about what nonsense the next day would bring,” he offered honestly. The thought of his students having to live in fear and paranoia the way he did was deeply disturbing. 

“I must admit, I hadn’t considered that perspective. What type of distraction are you suggesting?” Minerva asked. 

Crowley didn’t have as much to say to this. His mind reeled as he thought up a dozen different things, most of them filled with mischief that he knew the headmistress would immediately turn down. 

“Wasn’t there a ball here, a couple decades ago?” Anathema voiced after a few moments of silence, “For the triwizard tournament, I read about it.” 

“The Yule Ball! Yes! That’s a clever thought, Anathema!” Azira beamed at her before turning to McGonagall with much more comfort than the Herbology professor had. Unlike Anthony, he had been one of her best students, “I, too, attended Hogwarts around that time. It was the one year when all that fear was going on that students weren’t so worried about it. Tournament aside, everyone was anticipating the Yule Ball from the moment it was announced.”

“Ah, yeah. Remember that pretty well. Drama, gossip, hormones, nothing distracts a bunch of teenagers quite like it, eh?” Crowley mused. 

“Oh the students took so well to it. They all put so much effort into looking so charming, to learn their dances and invested so much cleverness in asking one another. Please, Minerva, I think it would be a splendid idea! So much life brought to the castle in such dark times…,” drolled Professor Binns, floating through Crowley, who flailed humorously out of disgust and hissed a passing ‘_do you mind?’._

Minerva pursed her lips in thought, looking severely across the faces who had spoken up as she seemed to be grasped in an air of indecision. 

“It did improve morale, students made much more impressive attempts than usual coming back to second semester,” supported Professor Vector, to nearly every teacher’s surprise. The incredibly stern and cynical professor was a valuable asset in a debate such as this.

“Very well, I suppose if the idea is so popular amongst you, we shall execute it. However I must re-emphasize, while this might distract the students, we must stay as vigilant as possible. Please be on your guard for anything of a suspicious nature. In the meantime, we must assign duties to you all to contribute to the ball,” McGonagall finally gave in, looking a bit wary of the daunting task, “In 1994, we had help from several professors from other academies. It will be a great deal more work amongst us.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind organizing the tasks, Minerva,” Azira offered cheerily, “You won’t need to worry about a thing.” 

“Thank you, Azira. Then, that’s all. Please notify me immediately of any other disturbances. We shall reconvene with any news from the Ministry.” 

As she dismissed them, the chatter grew loud and excited. Crowley appeared in much higher spirits than earlier, despite still being overwhelmed with exhaustion. “Well done, you,” he offered the rare compliment to Anathema. 

“Indeed! What a splendid idea, Dear Girl,” chirped Azira. 

“It was nothing. I hadn’t even thought that you two might have attended it, I suppose it’s good that you did,” she reassured humbly while idly steeping her tea, “What was it like, did you two have fun? Remember who you asked? Recall any heart-pounding romantic endeavors of youth?”

“Waste of a Sunday, this meeting,” Crowley changed the subject promptly, gaining curious glances from both his colleagues, “Could have gone to Edinburgh. It’s nearly lunchtime too…”

“Lunchtime! Shall we voyage into town?” the librarian bought the distraction with such vigor that it left Anathema in awe. For being so dead-set on denying his obvious feelings for Crowley, he certainly was wrapped around the taller man’s finger as tight as a ring. However, she too had missed the peace amongst her two best friends at Hogwarts these last excruciating weeks. Thus, she withheld her observations and heaved a greatly put-upon sigh, meandering alongside Crowley as Azira hurried on ahead of them. 

* * *

The view from the bridge was beautiful this time of year. The vast ferocity of The Black Lake appeared so small and peaceful at distance, cradled gently in the canyons between the rolling red and orange snow-capped hillsides that extended into the horizons. The grey overcast clouds made the colors of Autumn appear technicolor in contrast. A slight breeze rustled through the dying leaves and carried the aroma from where Hagrid burned those that had been raked up in a great bonfire near his hut all the way from the other side of the grounds. 

Very few students’ routines incorporated paths across the old, rickety structure on Sunday afternoons. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do save for venture to the owlery at the end of the road and risk being pecked by fowl of all sizes and breeds, inevitably begging for treats. Thus, this was one of Anathema’s favorite locations since she’d started her work here six years prior. She could find peace here, enough to study her ancestor’s prophecies and form her own. The Device family alone had filled nearly half of the American Ministry of Magic’s Hall of Prophecy. However, Anathema herself had contributed very little to either America’s or the UK’s. Her visions were few and far between, and furthermore, they were almost never of cosmic consequence. No, she’d only come here, to Scotland and to Hogwarts, because Agnes Nutter’s prophecy told her she’d ought to.

As of late, she seemed to be seeing less than ever. This brought her significant amounts of self-doubt and frustration. If she had predicted the Dementor attack, perhaps Crowley would not have fallen into the state he had. He may have recovered, but her conversations with Azira reinforced how close to death their mutual friend had truly come. Then, there had been the attack from the forest, from which Anathema hadn’t gotten an inkling of foresight- not even a glimpse. Students could have been maimed. These thoughts haunted her with every glance at a student’s face, every pass of a window overlooking the grounds, and every night when she closed her tired brown eyes to sleep. But not here.

Here there was only peace. 

Anathema was in a sort of trance looking out at the harmonious scene painted around her. She appreciated the shapes, colors, and techniques that constructed the masterpiece of nature. A bit of her felt envious that her two British friends had gotten to spend their childhoods here, in this beautiful place, surrounded by friends. She’d been homeschooled in isolation, with only her mother for company. While she’d been versed in many subjects, Divination took up over two thirds of her schooling. Gathering materials and brewing potions had been more of a personal interest than anything else. 

“Professor Device?” an anxious voice broke the serenity, and if the Potions Master was at all startled, she showed no outward sign indicating as much. Her thin hand raised to the side of her glasses, adjusting them as she turned to gaze upon the intruder of her solitude.

“Adam Young,” she hummed thoughtfully, looking him up and down, “You look troubled. Come join me.” 

An unsure look sat upon his face, his blue eyes were averted to the side, and his hands worried together. His House Head sensed a guilty and anxious energy radiating off him. She’d long since been interested in the boy, from the moment he entered the Great Hall. He was the only student she’d ever had that emitted no aura whatsoever. And yet, he was always so filled with life, creativity, and imagination. She was proud to have him in her house and intrigued to unfold the mystery that shrouded him. 

The boy shuffled to stand beside her, nearly tripping over the black cat that purred and circled around his feet. 

“Oh!” he said in surprise, “Hello there! This one’s yours, right professor? Always see it prowling around the Potions Lab, causin’ trouble.”

“Ah yes, that’s Mischief, don’t worry, she doesn’t bite, though you’re quite right that she causes a great deal of strife for me, as her name implies,” Anathema reassured him. 

He stopped to scratch the loud, demanding cat behind her ears before standing to take in the scene before them. Over a bit of time, his shoulders seemed to relax from their tense state, and he crossed his arms over the bannister, resting his chin upon them. 

The teacher and her student stood like that for a while, a comfortable silence building between them as Anathema waited for the messy-haired boy to grow confident enough to tell her what he’d come to. 

“You know all this… stuff goin’ on, lately? With the Deman-Demon- uh...”

“Dementors?”

“Yeah, that’s them, the Dementors. And the Forbidden Forest tryin’ to eat the castle?”

“I might have heard about it,” Anathema teased him. 

“Well… I want to turn myself in.”

The Potions Master finally turned her head to look at him, arching a dark, thin eyebrow over her round glasses, “Turn yourself in?” 

“Yes, I’m… I did it… I caused it,” Adam raised his head from his arms, looking down over the railing and chewing his lip. 

“How do you imagine you managed that?” Anathema asked, amused that an eleven-year-old boy could believe he manifested some of the darkest forces she’d ever witnessed. 

“Well… During the Hallowe’en Feast, Professor Fell was telling that story, and when he was talking about the Dementors, all I could think about how _cool_ it was, and how I’d do anything to see them right there at that moment, to see for myself what Elise Toadstool must be feeling. And then they came. And then- then me and my lot had our detention in the Forbidden Forest for trashing Crowley’s greenhouse. We saw loads of spooky things in there. Not even a bit of what’s really going on, I’d reckon. We harvested some of the creepiest plants I’d never even thought could exist. The night that it attacked I… I dreamed of all those plants I was scared of, coming out of the forest to come and get me.” 

“Professor Crowley,” Anathema corrected instinctively, not that her friend really gave a flying flobberworm if students used the title. She considered Adam’s words carefully before hunching over a bit to meet his gaze better, “Adam, what do you know about causation and correlation.” 

“Uh…. well…,” he started, clearly not planning on going anywhere else with it.

Professor Device gave a friendly laugh and attempted another approach, “You’re from a Muggle family, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“So, this is all new to you, this whole great Wizarding world, all its plants and creatures and rules?”

“S’pose so,” Adam mumbled, kicking the bricks on the walkway. 

“It’s a lot to take in, and you have a greater imagination that any of my first year students, you know that?” 

“I don’t… I don’t think I’m imaginin’ it though, Professor Device,” he mumbled anxiously, peering up at her from the side of his eye.

“I’d be willing to bet most of those students were eager to know more about Dementors that night, don’t you think?” she inquired gently.

A few beats passed between them before her student answered, “Yeah, I’d reckon so.” 

“Do you think that their curiosity caused the attack?”

“Well… no…”

“And as for the forest, do you know what intuition is?” 

“Hm… ain’t it like, iunno, knowin’ somethin’ deep down in your gut?” 

“Right. Some witches and wizards are born with a special intuition called the Sight. It allows them to know what’s happening somewhere else, or what will happen in the future. Perhaps you’re one of them. Perhaps that intuition was warning you of what was happening while you were dreaming. That’s a valuable skill, you know. It will keep you and your friends safe. We have an entire subject for it once you reach your third year.”

“Really? Like, fortune telling? There’s a whole class for that? That’s so cool!” Adam expressed, shooting upright and beaming at Anathema.

“Yes, Divination. It’s not just predicting the future, but also having insight into past and present events as well, things you would have no way of knowing otherwise.”

“And you think I might be good at it?” 

“I do,” she smiled warmly down at him, “dreaming of current events is a common indicator in young witches and wizards with the Sight.” 

“So…,” Adam began thoughtfully, gazing anxiously up at his professor, “So, it’s not my fault, then? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” 

“Right,” he smiled broadly, “Thanks Professor Device. Between the two of us, maybe us Divinati- Divinate- Divinators can tell before any other bad stuff might happen to Hogwarts!”

“Maybe,” she grinned, scrunching her nose and winking at him playfully, “But before we become the Heroes of Hogwarts, what do you say we go sneak some sweets from the kitchen? I heard they’re making the first pumpkin tarts of the year, today.” 

“Pumpkin tarts! What are we waitin’ around here for then?” Adam asked, beside himself with excitement. He grasped Anathema’s hand haphazardly and yanked her along towards the kitchens. She stumbled after him, laughing and marveling how invested he was in her idle suggestion. Both of their worries of recent disasters fell behind them, the breeze whistling through the covered bridge carrying them far away into the Highlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite chapter so far, but it set up some needed plot points. Next week's will be more fun! The trio's venturing into Muggle Country ;P
> 
> I'm going to try to post by Wednesday, but I have a lot of Uni stuff to catch up on, so it might be Sunday!
> 
> Also just wanna thank you guys for being so supportive of this fic <3 It means so much to me that you like it!
> 
> Follow me @Get_Wrexed on Twitter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The professor trio ventures to Muggle London and run into someone unexpected. Fun is had. Doors are opened that can't be closed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get raunchy this chapter, thus the fic's now under an Explicit rating. It's not until the very end. You'll know when.

“I’m going to throw up!”

“You throw up in my car, it’s over for you, Device. Avada kedavra, bitch.”

“That’s really not funny at all, Dear Boy” Azira managed out through gritted teeth, able to do little else but succumb to his fate as his life flashed before his eyes.

“What in Satan’s name makes you think I was joking?”

“Here! Turn here, Crowley!” the librarian shouted urgently.

Crowley swung his palm around the steering wheel harshly, skidding halfway through the busy intersection as he followed the directions. Unlike his passengers, he appeared to be cool as a cucumber, leaned back into the leather seat with right arm resting on the windowsill. He whistled to the tune of Queen’s _ I’m in Love with my Car _. 

Outside the confines of the vintage Bentley was, presumably, London. However, at the speed its driver was taking it, a glance outside the windows that donned James Bond bullet hole decals would only show a blur of colors. If one didn’t blink, they would manage a glimpse of the automobiles and human beings Crowley narrowly avoided hitting as he swerved in and out of his own lane and that of oncoming traffic. 

“How are we supposed to avoid being seen like this?” Anathema hissed from the back seat, arms flailing to find support as her safety belt did impeccably little to keep her from being thrown about the cab. 

“Ehhhhh, you lot worry too much. This baby’s got perception charms out the wazoo,” Crowley hummed flippantly, supporting the wheel with his knee as the hand he had been using to drive with waved dismissively in the direction of his friends.

The effectiveness of these charms was brought into question as a woman who nearly stepped immediately into the car’s path screamed- a mere blip at the speed they were going. 

“This is worse than the Knight Bus! Do you even have a license to drive?” Azira asked desperately, clinging to the overhead handle of the car as if releasing it would result in him rocketing behind into the street. 

“Sure. You know how much paperwork the Ministry makes you do to enchant and own a flying car? Criminal, really.”

“I mean a _ Muggle license! _For driving on the street!” 

“Why would I get one of those? I’m not a Muggle.” 

“Crowley, we need to make a decision here, because something’s coming up,” Anathema whimpered, looking quite green when the redhead glared at her in his rear-view mirror.

“I won’t hesitate, Anathema. I swear on my father’s grave- I’ll gladly go to bloody Azkaban.” 

“Just park!” Azira begged in exasperation. After Crowley slammed harshly on the brakes, sliding seamlessly into a parallel space between two cars that certainly hadn’t been there before, the blonde dared to breathe again for the first time since they’d landed in the city. 

The witch of the group flung open the door, scrambling out of the automobile and to the nearest trash can before promptly losing her lunch. Her cohorts followed after her. Crowley did a lap around his Bentley, in part to check for damage as well as to admire his most prized possession. 

Following a James Bond marathon with Azira, he’d set out in search of his own Bentley, and had found purchase at a scrapyard in Wales. The man who presided over the wonderland of junk had smugly pegged Crowley as a sucker, as he seemed to have no knowledge of automobiles, no perception of currency, and a burning curiosity to know the nature of objects as common as microwaves. It was as if space aliens had dropped him nearby and said, ‘There you are, have a go.’ The tables were turned when the yard owner agreed to sell the mysterious man the absolutely decimated, long out-of-order vehicle. The wizard couldn’t forget the way the poor fool had poured his coffee all over himself, not even noticing the scalding heat as he was flabbergasted by the view of the the now practically mint-condition Bentley cruising out of the lot. 

“There we are. Everyone’s alive. Not so bad, yeah?” Crowley hummed.

“You’re a demon straight from Hell.” If looks could kill, the one Anathema directed at her colleague would send his guts splattering in every direction.

“I am. And you _ love it _,” the Herbologist grinned devilishly, slinging the end of his red scarf over his shoulder with a dramatic flare and shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather pants. He missed his robes, they had so much more pocket space. He blended in decently to the Muggle world around him today. His outfit was fairly simple, with a grey keyhole sweater and his favorite snakeskin boots. His hair was pulled up into a messy bun behind his head, “So, where to, Captain?” he drawled, mock saluting Azira. 

“The record shop is down that way,” Azira gestured with a nod down the busy street, holding back Anathema’s hair with one hand and rubbing her back with the other as she got the last of her nausea out of her system. 

“Alright then, off we go! Look alive, Device,” Crowley walked with an impressive amount of confidence in his step for a wizard who would have roughly the know-how of a 5-year-old child if stranded alone amongst Muggles. 

“I. Am going. To kill him,” Anathema swore as she finished her business, smoothing her olive green knee-length dress and adjusting the brown braided belt that held it in place. She swung her leather apothecary bag over her shoulder and gave Azira a grateful look when he offered her his arm. The two followed after the man who was aimlessly marching forward. 

Crowley’s stride of confidence faded as he saw canvassers up ahead. For all his confidence, he knew he was unequipped to interact normally with Muggles. Thus, the other wizard collected him on his way past. Azira towed both of his friends along with him now, on either side. This wasn’t their first voyage into the Muggle world together, and he was well aware of how much guidance they needed. Luckily, he had the patience of a saint, and he found their naiveté quite endearing.

The witch and wizard who knew only the Wizarding world eagerly asked questions about objects in store windows, different gadgets they saw Muggles using, and strange social habits they picked up on in passing.

A boy glided past them, feet unmoving on a horizontal board. 

“What on earth is that? How is he doing that? Isn’t that magic?” Anathema asked in quick succession, both her and Crowley twisting their bodies and slowing their pace to gaze in awe at the spectacle. 

“Is what magic?” Azira asked, pausing to look behind them. 

“That boy, on that thing,” Crowley said, “He’s floating.”

“Oh- no, that’s not magic, it’s technology. It’s called a hoverboard, I believe. They’re all the rage with youngsters these days.”

“_ Youngsters? _How old are you?” the redhead marveled at the terminology. He may have been a wizard, but he wasn’t ancient.

A low hum sounded, and for a moment, terror took over Crowley’s face as he flailed for the wand secured in his waistband. He paused, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves as he realized that it was not the source of the obstructive noise, “Where is that coming from?”

“Oh that’s me, sorry,” Azira said bashfully, realizing he’d forgotten to silence his phone before they arrived at an area with mobile service. 

“That’s… you?” Crowley asked, exchanging confused looks with Anathema before his angel reached into the pocket of his tan jacket and pulled out a basic flip phone. 

“What’s that?” the brunette asked.

“It’s my mobile,” he explained patiently.

“I thought you said what Dowling had was a mobile?”

“They both are.”

“That’s confusing,” Crowley mumbled, leaning invasively over Azira’s shoulder to examine the technology. Anathema followed suit. Azira remained unbothered. 

“What’s a mobile?” she asked.

“It’s a phone, and it appears I’m receiving a call. You must excuse me, I have to take this. The shop’s right down there. Why don’t you two go in ahead of me? Do stay together, please! And refrain from wandering off, I’d hate to lose you.”

“Yes, _ Mom _,” Anathema teased with a coy grin.

“We’ll hold hands the whole time,” Crowley teased, winding his fingers through the Potion Master’s and swinging their arms in a wide arc. 

“Honor the buddy system!” the witch chirped as they skipped down to the edge of the block like school children, finding themselves quite amusing. 

They released their grip on one another as they entered the music store, lined with posters of what could only be assumed to be modern Muggle bands. Crowley noted that their fashion tastes were exceedingly hideous. There were several rows of small, flat, square plastic cases depicting different artists. He grimaced as he wondered what they were and if there were any actual formats of music here.

“Welcome to Fresh Beats,” droned a girl behind the counter with short bright pink hair, one side of it shaved. She sported several facial piercings and tattoos, a black studded choker, a yellow plaid miniskirt, and a black tee-shirt that read ‘Nirvana’. The entrance of customers didn’t appear to motivate her to bother looking up from her mobile.

“Ciao. Dig your whole…,” Crowley spread his fingers and circled his hand around his wrist to gesture to the entirety of her as he found the right word before enunciating it with a pop, “vibe.” 

She heaved a sigh, preparing to raise her gaze to some obnoxious man who’d only come in because he felt entitled to her attention. Instead, she found Crowley and Anathema. She raised a brow, looking the wizard up and down.

“Hey, right back at you,” she grinned, “Love the jumper. What you in for?”

“Ah, yes, we’re uh… you know… normal…,” he began, attempting to decipher how to speak so he might blend in as a typical Muggle.

“Just average human beings, you know, like you,” Anathema attempted to help, “And we’re looking for…” 

“Uh… a specific type and format of... musical…,” Crowley continued. The girl looked back and forth between them, both eyebrows raised now, her face otherwise concealing her emotions.

“Musical entertainment!” the American finished confidently, finding her and her colleague’s method of communication to be quite a success. 

“Right then, fellow homo sapiens,” the woman hummed, clearly entertained by this outlandish interaction, “what format is it you speak of?”

“Aw, yeah, er, they’re ‘bout this big, circular,” Crowley began, holding his hands up to show the size of a vinyl. 

“That’s right, and they have little grooves in them, they’re flat,” Anathema elaborated further.

“You might know them aaaas…,” Crowley stretched the word out, praying that the word wasn’t exclusive to the Wizarding world as he scrunched his face and held his breath, squeaking out, “records?”

The shopkeep looked between them, amused beyond reason, “are you guys like, looking for drugs? Or actual records?” 

“No- well, I mean- what the Hell. Sure. I’m not working today. What you got?” the wizard indulged her, leaning against the counter in intrigue. 

“_ Crowley,” _his friend chided.

“Oh boo, live a little, Anathema,” he groaned, waving her off dismissively, “fine then, just the records.” 

The spectator snorted, trying to swallow her giggles. The relief that she was finally able to make sense of the oddball pair was almost tangible, “What records do you need?” 

“Well, it’s like, 70’s, I think,” the redhead started up yet again.

“That’s right, and it’s kind of… well… it’s sort of…”

“Do you know the name of the band?”

“Queen,” Crowley breathed in relief. 

“Jesus, you should have just said so when you came in,” she laughed, unable to hide her entertainment any longer, “Everyone knows Queen. Follow me.” 

After a bit of browsing, Anthony found a couple of the band’s records he did not yet own, as well as a couple other suggestions the shopkeep directed him to. 

“Oh, I should have mentioned earlier, my coworker isn’t back with change for today, yet, so we can only take card.”

The witch and wizard exchanged anxious glances, and the staff member leaned over the counter expectantly, prepared to have yet another go around with the strange customers. 

Crowley felt around his pockets. He didn’t have business cards on him, and even if he did, he couldn’t exactly hand a Muggle a card that said, ‘Professor of Herbology at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Researcher of Magical Plants.’ How did that constitute as payment, anyway? He simply didn’t understand Muggles. A great wave of relief washed over him as he watched the object of his affections finally enter the shop, finishing his phone call, “I must let you go, Amelia. I’m quite serious, don’t you dare sell that book. I won’t ever forgive you if you do!” 

“Mr. Fell!” the girl scanning the vinyls called out cheerfully, “Nice to see you back in town.” 

“Thank you, Melanie, it’s nice to be back, even for just the day,” he smiled warmly, pocketing his phone and immediately reading the desperate look of confusion upon his fellow professor’s face, “Is something the matter, my dear?” 

“Hey, Angel. Er… no, it’s just that she says I can only pay with a card?” Crowley asked, unsure if he was relaying the information correctly. 

“Oh! Right, I’ve got it, don’t worry, Dear Boy,” Azira reassured him, finding his wallet and handing Melanie his card. 

“They’re... with you?” the shopkeep asked, surprised, eyeing the two peculiar individuals yet again as she took the card between her index and middle finger.

“Oh dear, have they caused you any trouble?”

“No, nothing like that. Strange lot, though. This one tried to buy drugs from me.” 

“Anthony,” the blond deadpanned, uneeding of further elaboration and giving him a scrutinizing glance.

“Wh- that’s- s-sh-she offered!” Crowley blurted defensively, causing Melanie to burst out in laughter. 

“Don’t worry, I like ‘em, a bit of crazy keeps things interesting,” she said quite decidedly, handing Azira the card and the bag of records, “By the way, you oughta sell a book someday, or you’ll have to close shop.” 

“Haven’t been driven to those extremes yet,” Azira smiled confidently, holding the door open for his friends, “Do take care, Dear Girl.” 

Once they were out on the street, he handed Anthony the plastic bag of goods, gazing warmly at the man who grinned widely and held it to his chest like it contained priceless treasure, “Lunch, anyone?” 

“Sounds good, I do have an empty stomach,” Anathema said pointedly, glaring at Crowley.

“Wha? Don’t blame me, buck up, or whatever.”

Azira appreciated the beautiful, uncharacteristically sunny day as the two bickered amongst themselves, trailing behind him. Their arguing was as natural as the Herbologist and Azira sharing a drink after classes, or he and Anathema meeting every week to discuss the book they’d agreed on. It was their silly, strange way of showing one another affection. There were many different dynamics amongst the three of them, but the librarian fancied this little group as his Hogwarts family. They protected and defended each other. They supported each other.

They loved each other.

* * *

  


The tiny French bistro the trio had settled on for dinner was located at a little hidden corner down a cobblestone alleyway lined with lovely yellow-green bushes sporting purple berries. Callicarpa bodinieri, Crowley had informed them, or Beautyberry Bushes. It was an unusually warm day, at least by Azira and Anathema’s standards, and they’d managed to outvote their friend in a decision to sit on the quaint little pateo that sported cracked concrete and outdated metal furnishings. The animagus’s scarf was wrapped several times around his neck as he slunk down into his chair, the heat charm keeping his neck and face warm, however he was beginning to regret his choice in jumper as the flesh exposed by his keyhole was at the mercy of the chilly breeze. 

The three spell-casters exchanged wild theories on the recent events affecting their place of work and living. Crowley came up with the most bizarre idea, that perhaps a hole had been ripped in time and space, causing influences of 25 years past to affect the present. Anathema was entertained. However, It appeared that space-time continuum jokes were a bit too fresh of material for Azira. The witch caught the odd exchange that reminded her so vividly of the librarian shunning the Herbologist just a week or so prior. She again marveled at what Crowley possibly could have done to upset Azira so deeply. As far as she was concerned, the Muggle-born was almost always willing to overlook any and all flaws the pureblood boasted. An out-of-breath voice broke each of their focus. 

“Ana! Anathema!” 

The witch and wizards turned their attention towards the figure that had called out, and even beneath her olive skin, Anathema turned a notable shade of red that neither of her cohorts had ever witnessed her don before. After a tall, spindly man wearing glasses leaned down to kiss her and she timidly returned it, glancing anxiously at Crowley from the corner of her eye, he grew a wicked grin, realizing the unfamiliar emotion she was portraying was, in fact, embarrassment. It didn’t suit her well at all, but her sadistic friend was quite enjoying watching her skin crawl anyhow.

“It’s so good to see you! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming into London?” the man asked.

“Well, it was all very sudden, I didn’t have time to get a letter in the post to you before we came. It’s just a day trip really.”

“A day trip? Isn’t the academy you teach at in Scotland?”

Anthony and Azira both measured the man up as the interaction occurred. Crowley eyed him carefully through his glasses, wondering what it was about him, aside from his dorky demeanor, that Anathema was so eager to hide. Azira thought he looked like a nice young chap. 

“Well, yes- that is- it's just that I’m here with my colleagues… ,” she finally settled on before trailing off. 

The strange intruder looked a bit embarrassed as he finally noted the men at the table, self-consciously adjusting his shirt and clearing his throat, “Right, erm- hello! I’m Newton Pulsifer, Newt, if you don’t mind.” 

“Azira Fell,” the blonde wizard greeted, holding out his hand and shaking Newt’s with such a friendly smile that the nervous figure seemed to relax the smallest amount. 

“Anthony J. Crowley, but it’s just Crowley” the other provided, shaking his hand firmly after. He must have given off an intimidating aura, because the newcomer squirmed and swallowed hard under his gaze.

“What’s the ‘J’ stand for?” Newt asked with an anxious grin, attempting to jest in an amicable manner.

“Just a ‘J’ really,” Crowley bounced back instinctively, acting laid-back as usual, though he was heavily guarded on the topic. Even Azira hadn’t ever gotten a real answer to that one, “How about you? Is it ‘Newt’ like Newt Scamander?”

“Er… who?”

“Oh,” Crowley said. Then, when all the color drained from Anathema’s face, her black eyes boring into him in anticipation, realization dawned on him. A mischievous grin took over his features, “Ohhhhhh. Say, Newt, why don’t you join us, we’ve already gotten our food, but it would be a great pleasure to get to know Anathema’s.... “

He dragged out the ‘s’ and rolled his hand around his wrist as if to coax an answer from the couple. Awkward tension filled the air as several beats passed. Newt glanced at Anathema expectantly, and Anathema was transfixed on her napkin in turn, unfolding and refolding it. Azira gazed scoldingly at Crowley. 

“Ahem, he’s my boyfriend, and I’m sure he’s busy-” the witch finally supplied, interrupted before she could shoo Newt away in self-preservation. 

The devilish wizard looked overjoyed, “Right, boyfriend, pull up a chair.” 

“I’d hate to intrude, I’m so sorry I did! I just saw Anathema and-” 

“No worries, Dear Boy! It’d be a pleasure to get to know you,” Azira provided with much more innocent intentions than his companion. Despite the friendly offer, he seemed much more interested in his sandwich than he was in Newt. The witch among them still appeared very much dismayed.

“If you’re sure,” Newt complied, anxiously. The unused chair he pulled up scraped boisterously against the concrete as he joined them at their modest dinner table. 

Anathema appeared to be captivated with a bird’s nest above a nearby streetlamp. 

“Don’t you all teach in the Highlands? Must have been quite a journey?” Newt offered, still quite clearly shaken with nerves. He seemed to be a skittish fellow. 

“That’s right, but even professors ought to have fun sometimes, right? We’re headed out after dinner,” Crowley cooed the lie, trapping his prey like a spider in its web. 

“I suppose that’s true, you must get a bit of cabin fever. What do you two teach? I know Anathema teaches Chemistry.”

The pureblood’s grin grew wider, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as his suspicions were confirmed. He answered on his friend’s behalf, allowing the blond to continue focusing on his meal, “Azira’s the librarian. I teach… Botany.” 

“Oh, really? I didn’t know schools in the UK offered subjects like Botany.” 

“Some boarding schools do- but that’s all quite boring, isn’t it? What do _ you _ do, Newt?”

Crowley felt himself inching closer and closer to revealing Anathema’s shame, as now she stared straight at him, eyes wide as saucers, and visibly gulped. 

She looked as if she was lost at sea and the waitress was a rescue ship as the woman came outside to deliver desserts. Upon spotting Crowley’s barely eaten quiche, she apologized for her proactiveness. In turn, he insisted she take it away, quickly turning his attention back to the Muggle before him, not losing track of their conversation. Anathema looked devastated that the topic had not been lost.

“Oh- well, it’s silly really. I’m a witchfinder.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows rocketed above his glasses in absolute giddiness. Azira choked on his tea, cleared his throat, and withdrew a handkerchief from his vest pocket to clean the mess he’d made, avoiding the Muggle’s gaze.

“A _ witchfinder _,” the Herbology professor repeated, “and what does that entail?”

“It’s nothing, honestly. Just something to do. Most of the day I cut out ridiculous articles about any suspicious or irregular phenomena nearby,” Newt mumbled self-consciously.

“So, pray tell, I’m burning with curiosity,” Anthony crooned, ignoring Anathema’s eyes boring into him as if she could will him into combusting into flames at any moment, “How does one tell if they’ve found a witch?”

“Well, according to Shadwell- the, er, witchfinder Sergeant, if you prick one with a needle, they won’t feel it, and, according to him… they have… well…”

“What do they have?” the Herbologist encouraged.

“Three nipples.”

Crowley looked positively delighted, a wide smile on his face and brows raised high, “Well then! Tell me, Newt, have you found any witches?” 

“No, to be honest I’m quite certain they don’t exist.”

“Is that so?”

While Azira would typically intervene and scold the pureblood for tormenting someone who didn’t know his mischievous ways, he was much too captivated eyeing the untouched chocolate torte on the table, as he’d already finished his own Crème brûlée. Crowley instinctively slid the dessert towards him. For the first time since they’d been joined, he glanced at the librarian, unable to cheat himself of the look of joy on his face as Azira sat up straight, happily sinking his fork into the torte. It was really the only reason Anthony bothered with desserts. Newt seemed to operate much more smoothly without the mysterious shielded gaze drilling into him.

“Yes. I’m honestly much more inclined to believe in science, finding witches seems like a bunch of hocus pocus, really. I do like computers, but I’m afraid I seem to have a curse of some sort around them,” he sighed, smiling a bit as Anathema finally reacted to him, reaching out blindly to place her hand over his and squeeze. Her face was still pale. She cautiously began eating her cheesecake, glaring up at Crowley occasionally from over her plate. 

“Oh there’s no curse, you’re being silly, really,” she reassured, offering Newt a half-hearted smile.

“Computers? Are those the-,” Crowley mimed a box in front of him and then raised his hands up and down to imitate typing- or more accurately, slapping his palms on a keyboard as if it were a set of bongos. 

“Um… yes, don’t you have them at the academy?” 

“Oh no, our school is very… that is, it is, it operates on neo-luddite philosophies for the students’ fundamental years,” Azira provided in between bites, not appearing obvious, as he was not specifically lying. He was a terrible liar, and even his serpentine friend couldn’t peg this particular statement as a breach of truth. Crowley blinked at him blankly, having no idea what neo-luddism was. 

“That’s very odd- I mean, interesting! Not many schools are going that direction with things nowadays,” Newt said, jumping as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He read the message, his face falling, “Unfortunately, it looks like I should be going. Please do let me know the next time you’re in town?”

Anathema smiled weakly at him, “Of course, Newt. Do be safe?” 

“I will, Ana, please write as soon as you get back!”

Crowley withheld a theatrical gag as the two kissed. He leaned back in his chair and inched his glasses down his nose, grinning smarmily at Anathema without uttering a word as Newt’s footsteps faded away into the white noise of the city bustle. She avoided the gaze, streaking the prongs of her fork through the strawberry syrup on her plate. Several tense beats passed with only some delighted hums from Azira as he fully indulged in Crowley’s dessert. 

“So _ Ana _,” Crowley began, cooing the nickname she had staunchly clarified no one had permission to use. 

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Crowley!” 

Azira appeared startled by the sudden hostility, finally bothering to pay attention to his surroundings, “Anathema, I really don’t believe it will be necessary to use that kind of language.” 

“You’re joking,” she said flatly, “He just spent the whole lunch making fun of my… of Newt.”

“I was not making fun,” Crowley mock pouted, innocently. 

“He was only curious, Dear Girl, and I can’t say I don’t understand why. You’ve never mentioned this beau to us before,” the librarian elaborated, finishing the last of his treat before chirping contently, “simply excellent.” 

The Herbologist looked positively smug as his crush defended him. The waitress returned to divvy out their checks. Azira aided his companions in sussing out how to manage their euros. The conversation was paused until their server was out of earshot.

“Because I knew _ this one _ would have something to say about me dating a No-maj- a Muggle, I mean,” Anathema accused Crowley with a grimace.

“I don’t appreciate that assumption,” her target committed to his charade of innocuousness. 

“Really, Crowley wouldn’t tease you for that. There’s nothing to be ashamed of at all, my dear. I know you two come from different upbringings, but there’s really nothing wrong about it in the least. I’ve been with plenty of Muggles. In fact, my last long term relationship was with a Muggle,” Azira offered the trivia empathetically, patting Anathema’s hand. She responded with a look of appreciation. 

“How about a witchfinder?” Crowley tested his luck, attempting to conceal a grin by nuzzling down into the soft yarn of his scarf.

“Well- no, I can’t say I’ve dated one of those. But he seems fairly harmless about it, doesn’t he?” the blond reflected, “I must admit I am curious as to how you got into that relationship, however.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Anathema heaved a sigh, offering an armistice, “You two take me to a tavern, get absolutely smashed with me, and then you can ask me all the questions you’d like.

“Oh, I’m not sure, Dear Girl, we really should be getting back,” Azira hesitated.

“C’mon, Angel! We’re in Muggle London and it’s not even a school night. When was the last time you went out to have some fun?” Anthony pressed.

“Today.”

“Nahhh, _ real _ fun,” Crowley corrected, “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time. Can’t I tempt you to indulge in some drinks and games?” 

“Well… I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Azira processed cautiously.

The trio wound up at a gaming bar called Player Ready, which was a fine setting for the rapid escalation of wild absurdity the evening had in store for them. Crowley and Anathema were drawn to a flashing neon dancing game and quickly discovered a correlation between consuming more alcohol and achieving less deplorable scores. Anthony was enamoured with the variety of arcade games at first but begrudgingly resigned to switching gears after the Muggle-born wiped the floor with him at the tenth consecutive game. Azira’s plans for sobriety were thwarted as the pureblood innocently coaxed him into joining strangers for a game of Beer Pong, not mentioning he’d become a professional at it in his 20’s, and hustled him staggering drunk. In her sloshed state, Anathema slipped between cooing over how much she loved Newt and ranting over how mad she must be to settle on a single person. When in her more panicked episodes, she would eagerly attempt to snog the nearest attractive specimen. Her dedicated companions continuously toted her away, Azira with a considerate “so sorry!” and Crowley with a more amused, “you wish it were that easy, don’t you?”

The friends they made at Beer Pong challenged the trio to some digital game called Mario Kart that was played on the tele (the Muggles chalked it up to drunkenness when Anathema and Crowley marveled at this). Crowley declined, much more invested in watching his friends attempt it. Azira was neck to neck with another player for first place. Several spectators yelled excitedly from behind the seats. Anthony stood over Azira’s shoulder, pacing back and forth and heatedly screaming, “YEAHHHHHHH, DEMOLISH THEM, ANGEL! WRECK THEIR SHIT!” as if he was at a Quidditch game. This was not helpful, but apparently it wasn’t too much of a hinderance either, because the blond came out the champion of the playful competition. He only spiraled further into drunkenness as at least three different people bought him drinks to congratulate him on his big win. 

At one point, late in the night, a man asked Azira for his number. The poor sap didn’t manage to get very far with it, as a fiery redhead cornered him and pressed him flush against the wall in the men’s room, threatening to destroy everything he loved if he didn’t dispose of it. Later, while watching a game of football, Crowley made the audacious decision to cheer for Colombia. He didn’t know anything about football, but being adopted by a Colombian family gave him the inclination to do so. Azira had to obliviate the entire bar, the contents of which were eager to drag Crowley outside and beat him senseless. His ardent friend was sure he could take them all on, and he almost certainly would have tried if the librarian hadn’t stepped in. They decided that was perhaps a good place to end the night, and they wandered outside to collect Anathema, who Anthony was greatly amused to find smoking a joint with some strangers. 

“That was a very strange cigarette,” she drawled dazedly as her two friends propped her up between them to begin their trek.

“I’ll bet,” Crowley snickered. 

Several minutes later, at approximately 1:30 in the morning, the trio was staggering side to side in a drunken stupor as they made their way onward. Azira and Crowley were cheerfully, loudly, and very, very badly singing _ I Love a Lassie _. The witch, almost entirely being held upright by her friends support now, was barely succeeding staying awake. Crowley noticed the third shop they’d passed with extremely phallic-shaped goods that he realized now were, in fact, sex toys. 

“Az- Zzz- Azizzz- Azir-” he tried, his failure to say his friend’s name launching them both full heartedly into a state of snorting and giggling.

“_ Angel _,” he managed after calming down, “wh- eh w-where the bloody hell are we? We lost?” 

“Noooooo, I wouldn’t get you lost!” Azira reassured him so genuinely it made Crowley’s heart hurt, “Werin- we’ren, _ we’re in _ Soho.”

“Soho,” Crowley giggled, “That’s fun to say”

“Soooohoooo,” Azira drawled, chortling as he found his companion quite correct.

“Yo-ho to So-WOAH,” the taller of them yelped as he nearly sent them all stumbling over the curb. The pair burst into laughter again. Crowley wore his glasses atop his head, his vision impaired enough without adding a dark filter to the world, “I dun think I parked here.”

“Me old mate,” Azira started, tiny bouts of giggles interrupting him despite him attempting to be genuine, “you think I’d let you _ drive _ right now?” 

Before his companion was able to think up a proper answer, Azira blurted out, “Here we are! Knew we weren’t lost!” and dragged them up a few concrete steps to a storefront. 

Crowley released Anathema and smashed his face against the windows, cupping his hands around his eyes so he might be able to peer into the dark interior of the building. Shelves and stacks of old books and some comfortable looking chairs were meticulously positioned inside. 

“A- aaaa- are we robbin’ a bookstore? Stealin’ some rare first edition you’ve been pining after?” his voice was muffled, as he hadn’t removed his face from the glass.

“Oh, yes. I was thinking to myself, ‘what would be the best possible end to this night? I know! A _ heist _’,” Azira jested, struggling to hold Anathema up by himself now while searching his pockets in tandem. 

“You mad man!” Anthony gasped, and then, with no hesitation, “I’m in. Wha’s the target, boss?” 

“Crowley,” Azira requested his attention while failing to withhold a laugh.

“Hm?” the animagus finally turned in response to his name and saw Azira pointedly inserting a key into the door and gazing at him in amusement.

“Woah! Where’d you get them?” 

“My pocket, dear, I live here,” he grinned, raising his eyebrows at his friend. 

“Whaaaat!” Crowley mused in disbelief, taking it upon himself to unburden his friend of the barely-conscious woman. The moment they entered the shop, he fell in love with it. It was cozy, warm, and smelled identical to Azira. He couldn’t imagine a more fitting place for the man to call home if he tried his hardest, “Wh-we-where’d you get a whole bloody bookshop from? How d’you afford this?” 

Azira led them to the back stairs, turning every few steps to make sure Crowley was handling Anathema alright, “Oh, it’s been in the Fell family for generations. Michael didn’t want it so me dad left it to me when he and mum retired to the country. My cousin, Amelia, and I have a deal; she runs the shop when I’m at school, and she has a free place to stay while she attends University. She’s out for the night.” 

“I love it. Very Azira Fell,” Crowley offered, earning such a bright smile it made his heart skip a beat. The upstairs living space was just as inviting as the bookshop beneath it. They deposited Anathema on the sofa, and Azira offered his friend something more comfortable to sleep in than leather pants. The pajama pants and soft knit sweater were a bit big on Anthony, but he looked so precious in them that Azira felt his heart swell. He left for the kitchen briefly to put the kettle on.

A huge, dramatic gasp could be heard from the living room, and for the first time since they’d left the bar, Anathema’s voice articulated faithfully, ”God is real.” 

The scene that Azira returned to made him quite curious if the alcohol was playing mind games on him. His two friends sat cuddled, side by side on the sofa, and were transfixed on picture frame they both held tightly. Tears- actual tears- were running down both their faces as they whimpered and squealed. Curiosity got the best of him, and he set the mugs of tea down on the coffee table, circling around them to see what they were in such a state over.

“Oh, Lord,” he murmured. The photo they were spiraling into borderline insanity over was, much to his dismay, him in a pumpkin costume at roughly age five.

“You’re so cute,” Anathema sobbed.

_ “Wook at his wittle cheeks!” _Crowley cooed in a high voice, pinching his fingers together over the photograph. 

“Please, no,” was all Azira could muster, though he of all people couldn’t say he wouldn’t act quite similarly were the situation reversed.

“I want one,” the witch sniveled. 

“I can die happy now. Take me now, Satan. I’m ready,” the wizard declared, spreading his arms wide as if prepared to be struck from the face of the planet then and there.

Azira managed to distract them by putting Scooby Doo on the tele. In their drunken stupor, he managed to sneak the photo away, returning it to its rightful place and seating himself on the other side of Crowley. 

As the influence alcohol drew them to fatigue, the three gradually spread out upon the furniture. Crowley stretched his legs out, indulgently resting his head on Azira’s lap. Anathema laid face-down on top of him, her head on his chest, and snored quietly as she immediately slipped into unconsciousness. The redhead had a bit more stamina, and was absolutely captivated by the cartoon, as he’d never seen animation before. He hadn’t the slightest clue how they did this without magic.

His hair was pulled down now, and Azira, still quite inebriated, found his impulse control slipping away. As far back as when he’d first grown fond of the Herbology Professor, he’d had a burning desire to delve his fingers into those beautiful red locks. He supposed if there was any opportunity to do so, it was now. Thus, he gently began stroking Crowley’s hair, waiting for an indication that he had permission. Anthony happily gave it, humming low in his chest as his eyelashes fluttered open and closed sleepily. Azira continued on for a while like this, and rather than feeling satiated, a hunger for more took over him. Very gradually, he sunk his fingers deep into the mop of hair, gently massaging soothing little circles into his scalp.

Crowley released a shameless moan, and Azira almost froze in response, his heart skipping a beat. Every bit of common sense in his head demanded he quit while ahead. However, some primal influence deep within that he hadn’t encountered in years urged him forth, starving for more of those gorgeous noises. His fingers learned how to move more skillfully and decipher what patterns drew out the most honest melodies, groans, and sighs. The wizard’s heartbeat started racing faster and louder in his ears, but he paid no mind, as there was only one thing he was currently interested in hearing. He wasn’t sure he’d ever submitted to his inner hedonist as much as he did in this moment. In an act purely motivated by greed, he delved his other hand into the deep red waves as well. 

“Mmmmmm, that feels so _ good _, Angel,” Crowley whined, entirely unaware of how he sounded. 

It was in this moment that Azira became aware of his own body, his flushing face, racing heart, and a Situation that must have been growing for some time during the course of his ministrations. Unsure if the man below him was asleep and _ certainly _ not wishing for him to take notice of his rising problem, the blond slipped out from under him, placing a pillow under the sleepy wizard’s head. 

“Where’re you off to?” complained the Herbologist, pouting at the loss of such devoted attention. 

“I- erm- Just- I’m just off to shower,” Azira rushed to say, pleased that Crowley seemed to accept this without further question and rushing off to his bathroom. 

The running water was loud enough to drown out worries about any noise escaping the small room, and Azira made quick work of stripping his clothing. A sharp hiss was released as the cold air hit his almost completely hard erection. Typically, if he were sober, he would turn the water on cold, try to bury his shame, and pretend nothing had ever occurred in the first place. But his head was dizzy from a cocktail of alcohol and lust, and his Hedonistic streak continued as he was unable to deny his mind and body what it was they ached for. 

He stepped into the warm water, releasing a sigh of relief. He brushed his fingers down his body, wrapping them gently around the base of his cock and resting his free hand against the tile of the shower wall for support as he slowly began stroking himself. His cloudy blue eyes fluttered closed, and it didn’t take long to think of a fitting scenario to indulge as he allowed his mind to slip away into it. 

_ They were in his office, sharing a drink that was certainly not the first of the night. He gazed through a drunken lense at Crowley’s face, his high cheekbones, thin nose, soft lips, and his eyes- oh those eyes. They burned like embers, even brighter now as they stared, transfixed, at Azira’s own lips. The librarian felt short of air, just starting to wonder if that face had always been so intoxicatingly gorgeous before their mouths came crashing together. He stumbled backwards for a moment, taken off guard, before returning the passionate kiss with force. His hands greedily buried themselves into his partner’s hair, and he took a moment to appreciate how absolutely right this felt. Little hesitation occured before the kiss grew more heated, Crowley moaning into the taste of cabernet on their intertwined tongues at the feeling of Azira’s hands in his red locks. _

_ It felt like no time at all, but in perfect synchronization, they pulled away from the kiss, lungs burning for air. Crowley seemed to decide that air was for suckers, anyway, and his mouth quickly rushed to Azira’s neck. He experimented on his journey, stopping here and there to nibble and suck until he found what he was looking for just beneath the blond’s jaw. The sharp teeth bit down gently, and he sucked with a vengeance, rendering Azira unable to contain his own guttural moan. The act lit a fire in the shorter of the two. All at once he lost his patience, finding himself wanting more and wanting it immediately. His hands grazed and grabbed at the slender body, covetously, until they landed on his belt and quickly made efforts to remove it. Crowley’s hands rushed to cease his own, and the librarian pulled back, gazing questioningly into his eyes. _

_ “You do so much for everyone, all the time. Let me take care of you,” Crowley crooned. _

_ The unspoken question resting on Azira’s lips was answered when he allowed himself to be pushed down into his office chair. His pupils dilated as he watched the tall figure sink to his knees before him, wearing a devilish grin. His mouth felt dry from desire. Crowley made quick work of freeing Azira’s cock, and his eyes fixed on it with a serpentine focus. A forked tongue slipped out of his mouth, wetting his lips. His spectator groaned in anticipation, anxious to see what the uniquely shaped appendage could accomplish. _

_ The first impression was not one of disappointment. Crowley leaned forward eagerly, pressing the center of the tip of his tongue to the underside of the target before him, the forked flesh on either side brushing the sides of Azira’s cock as he gave a liberal lick upwards towards the head of it. One arriving at his destination, he sucked the tip into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it and drawing the beginning of an “Oh, yes,” from Azira before, without warning, swallowing deeply downward onto his shaft. _

_ The older wizard’s hands flew back to those gorgeous waves he’d become so enamoured with, and he flexed his fingers against his scalp in rhythm with his moan before pulling the hair there commandingly. This drew one of those intoxicating moans from Crowley, who fluttered his eyelashes and arched his back, bobbing his head obediently and rolling his tongue against the contents of his mouth in an attempt to bring his lover as much pleasure as he could. Azira grinned down at him, gasping at the way the moan vibrated against his cock. He wasn’t sure if he prefered the sensation or the view more, and he thanked God that he didn’t have to choose between them. Crowley was a mess, his hair fisted firmly in Azira’s hands, his face flushed, and his eyes half lidded with lust as he gazed adoringly up at his partner. _

Azira gasped and panted, hunching forward into the stream of the shower water, face flushed as he was hopelessly lost in the fantasy. 

_ “You love this, don’t you, Anthony?” Azira hummed from deep in his chest, “How long have you been wanting to do this?” _

_ The man on his knees before him turned a darker shade of red, lowering his eyes as he focused on his ministrations. _

_ “No, no, eyes up here, Dear Boy, I want to look at you,” he commanded, heat pooling in his stomach as he was obeyed. The stars in Crowley’s eyes were blinding, now. _

_ The animagus was so devoted to bringing Azira pleasure, massaging his tongue against the appendage and hallowing his cheeks on each downstroke, taking as much of him as possible. He acted as if his life depended on his performance. Azira wondered with a small frown if he acted this eager for all the other men he’d undeniably done this for. A surge of jealousy he wasn’t aware he was capable of burned through his chest. He’d simply have to make sure Crowley set him apart, that he couldn’t do this to anyone else ever again without thinking of him. _

_ His grip on the soft red locks tightened, earning a whimpering moan, and without warning, Azira rocked his hips forward into the wet heat of Anthony’s mouth. Crowley inhaled sharply through his nose, eyes watering as he received the thrust like a champion. His golden pools gazed blearily up at Azira, and he gave a hearty groan of approval, just as Professor Fell was quite sure he was unable to be any more excited. He set a slow pace of thrusting his hips against Crowley’s flushed face, marveling at how deep he could swallow him. A mixture of needy little moans and chokes sounded from Crowley. His eyelashes fluttered uncontrollably, his nails scratched hungrily at Azira’s thighs, and streaks of tears ran down his face. _

_ “Oh, Anthony,” Azira moaned, “Yes- that’s- Oh, I’m-” _

Azira bit his lip so hard it bled as he came into his hand, pumping himself slowly through his orgasm as he imagined Crowley licking away the bit of sticky residue on his face that he could reach with his long tongue. He imagined pressing his thumb pad down on his glistening lower lip, grasping his chin and raising it so he could properly examine the extent to which he’d positively ruined him. Finally, Azira slumped against the shower wall, hoping he hadn’t made too much noise as he allowed himself to catch his breath. 

* * *

The next morning, Azira awoke feeling like someone had dropped a cinder block over his head. He fumbled out of bed, groaning as the room spun around him upon standing. Very slowly, he shuffled to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. As he waited for the water to heat, he patiently attempted to recall the events of last night. 

They’d went to the bar and had fun- so much fun that he was quite sure he could go a fair stint of time before experiencing anything close to it again. He’d managed to get them all back here, that was a good sign. No one was horribly maimed or injured. Perhaps it was best to ensure no one had gotten sick, either. 

Azira felt a surge of guilt when realizing he’d left his two friends uncomfortably intertwined on the tiny couch when there had been a perfectly good second bedroom that had gone unused. He padded quietly into the living room, relieved when it appeared everything was in order. At some point in the night, a blanket had been draped over Anathema, who was firmly hugging Crowley around his waist in a death grip. His arms rested comfortably atop her shoulders. 

Azira wondered about what else had happened last night. His eyes wandered to Crowley’s peacefully snoozing face, hair in disarray on the pillow beneath his head, and a flood of raunchy memories stormed him like a horde of centaurs. 

“Lord, give me strength,” he mumbled under his breath, face a distinct shade of red, “I’m in trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome for the smut <3
> 
> Follow me on twitter @Get_Wrexed


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley catches an invader in the library. An old classmate shows up in his office to deliver bad news. Azira and Anathema share a walk and some dessert.

A general sense of safety rippled through Hogwarts as the major hazards plaguing academy life subsided. Smaller curiosities began occurring in their stead. One lunchtime, the meal changed to an entirely different assortment of food halfway through. Professor Device had guided her first years through the brewing a boil-curing potion step-by-step. Much to her anxiety, by the end of class the contents of every cauldron in the laboratory contained Herbicide potion. She quickly confiscated the thick green bubbling liquid, and made a point to ensure the Herbology professor never discovered this phenomenon. On each occasion in which Azira attempted to organize the children’s literature section of the library, he discovered a plethora of new Muggle novels that he was absolutely positive were not present before. 

For several days, these incidents went unreported and overlooked. Gradually, they became more obvious. In Gryffindor and Slytherin’s first Quidditch game, the goal posts kept moving to accommodate attempted scores by Gryffindor chasers. The Slytherin Keeper’s broom seemed to continuously jerk him out of the way of blocking the quaffle. In one of Crowley’s classes, a boy called Greasy Johnson’s planter exploded in his hands, shards cutting his face and arms deeply, and the notoriously docile plant that had been inside clung to his face, attempting to suffocate him. It’s fragile limbs grew longer and thicker, wrapping around his head. The first years were talking about it for days after they got to see their professor in action, despite him barking at them to bugger off when dismissing class so he could drag Greasy to the infirmary with urgency. The Hogwarts professors managed the obscurities as they came, maintaining normalcy the best they could while waiting for the Ministry to finally begin their investigation. 

Crowley and Azira sat in the comfortable office tucked away in the library, the fire burning bright as the pureblood sat near it, his thin back absorbing the heat from it the best it could. The floor of the librarian’s abode had been taken over in a messy catastrophe that Crowley insisted was his own system of organization. Several papers and notes were fanned out in a litany of piles. Three separate stacks of books encircled the shivering figure and at least four open ones were spread in front of him (they had been stacked atop each other, but Crowley moved them after Azira complained he was ruining their spines for the third time). A journal with notes unintelligible to the average eye sat in Crowley’s lap. A quill was held in his mouth. Azira stepped carefully around the chaos that obscured the vintage rug covering the stone floor in his office as he returned to his armchair with his tea. 

“Aaaaan, ah ghah eh!” Crowley threw his arms over his head. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Azira asked patiently. His companion opened his mouth, letting the quill clatter to the floor. 

“Done with the outline, not too bad, eh?” the redhead grinned triumphantly, crawling forward on all fours to extend a long arm and hold a piece of crumpled parchment out to Azira. The more proper wizard turned an interesting shade of pink at the view of Crowley on the floor in front of him, finding it uncomfortably reminiscent of a particular shame he carried. He averted his eyes, taking the parchment and clearing his throat. Ever since their London trip, he’d been very peculiar about meeting his friend’s gaze. Originally, Anthony wondered if he was angry with him again, but he didn’t seem to be treating him any differently, otherwise. Indeed, Azira wasn’t angry. In his experience, after one consciously fantasized about finishing on their best friend’s face, it made it decidedly difficult to look said best friend in the eye.

Azira’s mind buzzed uncomfortably as he attempted to calm himself down and focus on the outline he’d promised to look over. Crowley had just recently admitted he was going to write a book on rare plants with valuable properties belonging to an array of biomes and their potential to revolutionize potion-making. His research hadn’t found fruition so far, but he’d collected multitudes of impressive findings, and publishing them might appease the Herbology circles into being more patient with supporting his cause. However, the author was more than aware that words were not his strong suit, and resigned himself to reluctantly ask the librarian for guidance, knowing he would never permit him to publish an unreadable book. Azira was well aware how difficult it was for Anthony to put his ego aside and request assistance for anything related to his research, and thus he was overjoyed to help. He felt as if his friend was letting him in, in a way he never had before.

“Hmmm, I believe you’re putting too much stock into the reader having prior knowledge of Geology and ecosystems. Instead of diving straight in, it might be prudent to preface the material with a chapter discussing the biomes you plan to reference and their natural attributes,” Azira advised after carefully overlooking the outline. 

“Bahhhh,” Crowley complained, throwing his arms out and rolling dramatically over the parchment on the floor, “w- wh- eh, why is writing a book so much bloody _ work? _ Why haven’t we as a society learned how to directly insert knowledge into people’s brains?” 

“We’d be out of a job if that happened. I know you can do this. Chin up, Dear Boy,” his companion encouraged, assuming his contribution to this book would be just as much motivating Anthony to actually bother writing it as it would be reviewing any progress. 

The figure laying face down on the floor now heaved a theatrical sigh, remaining in the uncomfortable position for a few moments before finally rising to his feet. 

“Fine, off to find references _ again _,” he mumbled, making his way to the door.

“Can I organize this for you while you’re gone?” Azira asked hopefully, referring to the hurricane of research materials that had struck his office with a vengeance.

“_ No _ , Angel, don’t touch it! I’ve told you, it _ is _organized,” Crowley warned, holding his index and middle finger to his eyes before pointing them at Azira and narrowing his gaze. The librarian smiled and held his free hand up to declare his innocence. 

“_ Lumos,” _ the redhead mumbled, wielding his wand in front of him as he trekked through the library. He hated being alone in it at night. The towering shelves blocked any moonlight that might have come in through the windows. It was so cold Crowley immediately caught a shiver and so silent he could hear his own breath. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard a distant sneeze. His feet came together at a halt. There was a student out of bed. 

As he smoothly transformed into a red-bellied black snake, the stone flooring sent a pins-and-needles sensation through his stomach. _ “Fuck, it’ssss cold,” _he hissed, slithering through the rows toward where he’d heard the sneeze. The restricted section, be was realizing now. This student was practically begging for trouble. 

After Crowley bumped his snout against a bookcase for the third time, absolutely unable to see where he was going, he decided to take things a bit more slowly. His infrared detection finally allowed him to spot a small figure anxiously holding up his wand to scan the spines of a row of books. 

_ “Sssssssomebody’ssss sssssnooping where they ssssshouldn’t be,” _Crowley hissed, flicking his tongue and lifting his head to be slightly more on level with the student.

The boy jumped and gasped loudly, flinging his wand to see who had spoken to him. He appeared confused until he lowered his wand and spotted the serpent. A smirk took over his features as he processed the friendly snake’s comment. Adam Young, the animagus noted while wildly wondering what a first year could possibly be looking for here. The Gryffindor squatted down, chest against his knees, and reached out his hand to the snake before him.

_ “Hello there, little ssssssssnake, where did you come from? You’ll keep my sssssssecret, won’t you?” _ Adam said in a language that was absolutely not English. 

Crowley’s body froze for a moment, and his mind might have, too. It wasn’t until the boy tried to touch him that he transformed back into his human form. Adam fall backwards, hands flinging behind him to support himself. He stared up at his professor with a mixture of shock and terror. The two wizards seemed to be having several competitions all at once: whose eyes were wider, whose face was paler, and who looked more like they were about to faint on the spot. 

“Come with me,” the professor rapidly formed the words, pulling Adam to his feet by the back of his pajamas and dragging him along hurriedly. He wasn’t sure of many things in this moment, but he was quite certain he was entirely unequipped to handle this situation. 

“Azira,” he called as he neared the office, his heart finding some relief when the familiar figure appeared at the door, “come on, need you in McGonagall’s office.” 

“And _ where _ did you find Mr. Young?” Azira asked, narrowing his eyes. 

Crowley’s pace had Adam nearly tripping over his own feet. The librarian practically had to jog to keep up. 

“Restricted section.” 

“The _ restricted section? _” Azira repeated incredulously, “Mr. Young-”

“We have bigger problems,” Crowley mumbled anxiously, “He-” 

The Herbology professor silenced himself as they twisted and turned through the corridors, his eyes flickering to Azira, then scanning his surroundings, then landing on Adam. The boy looked quite interested in what his professor had been about to say, as he was unsure what bigger problems were being referred to. As far as he knew, sneaking into the restriction section at night had been his greatest misstep. Fell’s face turned to one of concern as he finally examined Crowley’s own, noting his pale complexion and his razor thin pupils. He’d rarely seen him look so shaken. Azira’s scrutinizing gaze fell to Adam as well. The Gryffindor looked from one professor to the other and back again in desperate confusion.

“I what?” he asked, hoping for an answer. 

“Everything’s going to be okay, Adam,” Crowley tried to reassure him, sounding very unsure, himself. The attempt of comfort made the boy more anxious than ever. 

The trio landed in front of a massive and hideous stone gargoyle that eyed the trio curiously. 

_ “Cu-curio-curiositas- _bloody fucking latin,” Crowley cursed under his breath.

The other wizard waited patiently in silence before realizing his friend was looking at him hopelessly. 

“Oh!” he said, clearing his throat and enunciating clearly, _ “Curiositas autem occidit catus” _

Adam jumped back, clinging to Azira’s arm as the statue crawled to the side, revealing a slowly ascending spiral staircase.

“You see? What’s that nonsense. Would have taken me all year,” Crowley mumbled, gesturing for Adam to follow him as he boarded one of the rising steps. The boy anxiously followed after, looking uncertainly at Professor Fell, who gave him a stern but reassuring little smile before stepping on after him. 

The young Gryffindor seemed to forget he was being brought to the Headmistress’s office for disciplinary purposes as the staircase deposited them into the elaborate room. He marveled at it, gazing around at the obscure objects spattered around, the likes of which he’d never seen before.

“In trouble, are we, Young?” 

Adam yelped, jumping back and realizing the voice had come from the sorting hat. 

“Oh,” he remarked, rubbing the back of his head anxiously, “I think so.” 

“Professor Crowley. Professor Fell,” McGonagall acknowledged, looking up from her desk, “what has Mr. Young been up to for you both to find it necessary to escort him here?”

“He was in the restricted section,” Azira lamented, unable to hide his disappointment at the betrayal. 

“That’s not all though- we c-ca-cou-could have handled that,” Crowley was quick to follow up. His two colleagues looked at him intently, offering their full attention. The pureblood overlooked student behavior constantly, as he tried to be the kind of professor he wished he’d had when younger. For him to appear so anxious and serious about a student’s activity was a worrying indicator. He cleared his throat, “I transformed to catch him in the act, and when I did, he _ spoke _ to me.” 

Azira furrowed his brow in confusion, wondering why that was grounds for Crowley to drag him here in a frenzy. Likewise, McGonagall pursed her lips, gazing at her staff and waiting for an elaboration.

“In _ Parseltongue _.”

This received a reaction more along the lines of what Crowley was expecting. Azira was unable to withhold a small gasp. McGonagall’s eyes widened, flicking to Adam to measure him up, but her expression remained otherwise unchanged. 

“In what?” Adam asked nervously.

His professors basked in a silence that was deafening to Adam, exchanging secret looks that made him even more uncomfortable before McGonagall finally offered, “Parseltongue, Mr. Young, is the language of serpents. The ability to speak it is remarkably rare and, with only one exception, hereditary.” 

“I didn’t know I was speaking it, honest! I didn’t know talking to snakes would get me in trouble!”

“You’re not in trouble,” Crowley promised.

“Not for _ that _ anyway,” Azira added pointedly before something occurred to him, “I thought Mr. Young was a Muggle-born?” 

“I am,” Adam confirmed, “My parents thought it was a joke when I got my letter. They wouldn’ know magic if it smacked ‘em in the face.” 

“Mr. Young,” Minerva started with a growing suspicion, “Would you share with us what it was you were looking for in the restricted section?” 

The boy anxiously ran his hand through his messy brown mop of hair, biting his lip. “Well… ,” he began, looking around at his professors, “I’ve… been makin’ things happen- on accident. All the stuff that’s happened lately, it’s ‘cause of me. I’ll just think about somethin’ too hard, something that I want, or I’m afraid of, and it happens. I couldn’t find any books on how to control it, and I thought maybe the restricted section…” 

“Oh dear,” Azira commented.

“How is that possible?” Crowley marveled. 

Minerva stayed silent, trying to make sense of all this information.

“If Mr. Young is a Parselmouth,” she began thoughtfully, “he may be inclined to be a very powerful wizard, indeed. We know that adolescence can cause irregular magical events to occur.” 

“To the point of manifesting a hundred dementors?” the Herbology professor asked incredulously. 

“In this case, evidently.”

“Er… Minerva,” Azira started, “Are we equipped to handle this?”

“If we aren’t, I can’t imagine who is,” she answered, a point that proved indubitable, “I believe the best course of action would be to monitor Mr. Young closely and learn the patterns of the phenomenon. The continuance of his education is the best way to ensure he learns to control his magic. Until then, it might be best if we give him an amulet with a magic-dampening charm to avoid more dangerous situations- or cheating at quidditch. With the exception of Professor Device, I believe it’s best we keep this amongst ourselves.

“Right,” Crowley agreed, “so we don’t say anything.” 

Azira nodded in confirmation. Adam remained anxious.

“So I’m not... expelled?” he asked cautiously.

“Accidents do happen, Dear Boy, we’ll just have to learn how to minimize them,” Azira reassured. Adam’s shoulders relaxed, and he released a deep sigh of relief, smiling sheepishly at his professors. 

“Let’s get you off to bed,” Crowley said, clasping him on the shoulder and leaving his colleagues to discuss on their own.

“Oh- and Mr. Young,” the librarian called out.

Adam stopped, turning around to look back at Azira, “Yes, Professor Fell?”

“Report to me first thing after class for detention tomorrow.” 

The boy looked absolutely devastated, his hopes that his transgression would be overlooked crushed, “Yes, Professor Fell.” 

* * *

“I’ve done it!” shouted the sixth year Hufflepuff prefect, proudly holding up a vile of Venemous Tentacula juice.

“Look alive, Howler!” Crowley called from across the room, where he currently was holding one of the monstrous plants in his hands and extracting venom from its thorns. The rest of the class was standing at least five feet away from their respective plants, leaping forward and backwards again to attempt to pluck a single leaf at a time. Their professor was not impressed. He’d tried to get more of them to brave harvesting juice or venom from the carnivorous creatures, but very few built the courage, “Cowards, the lot of you.” 

“_ Professor Crowley,” _ whimpered Hagatha Howler, whose head was currently wrapped in the vines of a Tentacula dragging her towards its open mouth. 

“What did I say?” he groaned. The Herbologist returned his own plant to the table, ignoring as it rattled and reached out to him, affronted at the abrupt halt of attention. He pointed his wand at the base of the vines grasping the girl, _ “Diffindo”. _

The vines snapped off and she flew backwards, bumping into Slytherin Aedan Goosander, who in turn fell onto his own plant, which chomped down on his hand.

“FUCK,” he barked, snatching his hand out of the organism’s mouth and leaping backwards. 

“Antidote’s on my desk, Goosander,” his professor drolled boredly, “You might want to hurry, stunning effect sets in quick. Then, you know, death. Aaaaand I’m going to say that’s a good stopping point for the day. Next time you lot are harvesting venom. No more whining. Howler, gather those leaves before you go, that goes for any of you who had to hack off vines. The rest of you, I appreciate you not destroying my plants. Go cause some trouble today, on me.”

The sixth years whooped as they were dismissed, many of them bantering and saying their farewells to Crowley on their way out. He looked after the stragglers, ensuring no one else got bitten before making the walk back to his office. Well- it was more of a run, really. September had been chilly and wet, October had been unbearably cold, and November had a personal vendetta to kill the cold-blooded man. 

“Oi!” he responded to the students who attempted to greet him as he sprinted past. It was snowing today, and Crowley could think of little else but kicking off his shoes and peeling off his soaking wet socks. The overcast skies made the pureblood incredibly groggy, tired, and irritable. He simply wanted to settle down in front of his fireplace with a steaming mug of coffee and a copy of the Prophet. 

The heavy wooden door of Crowley’s office slammed against the wall as he threw it open.

_ “Ow!” _ hissed a man standing next to a startled and fluffed-up Twit. He shook his hand that had obviously just been victim to one of the owl’s unforgiving bites. 

“Oh, sorry ‘bout it, he’s a bit of a bastard,” the owl’s owner said, just now realizing how odd it was that anyone was waiting in his office for him.

The man in question sported Auror’s robes, dark hair, round glasses, a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, and a face that Crowley hadn’t seen in twenty years- well, in person, anyway. 

“Potter?” he asked incredulously, wondering if his brain was playing tricks on him, “Is there some kind of class reunion or something I don’t know about? You stopping by to check on the kids?” He guessed wildly, but none of his speculations served as an explanation as to why Harry Potter would be here, in his office. 

“No, er, here on business,” the Auror explained.

“Ah. Not the most comforting thing to hear from an Auror standing in the middle of my office. Fancy a cup of coffee before we get down to the dirty deeds?” 

“Please,” Harry responded, looking as exhausted as Crowley felt. An awkward silence filled the room as Crowley poured them each a cup of coffee and settled down into the chair behind his desk. 

He cleared his throat, “Erm… Ginny doin’ good?” 

“Yeah, she’s great,” Harry exchanged awkwardly, “And you, how are your… er… plants?”

“Good, good,” Crowley answered. 

Several awkward moments of silence passed between them.

“We never were good at small talk, were we, Potter?”

“No, we weren’t,” his old classmate said, appearing very relieved, “Let me get straight to it. The Ministry received a tip that you were a Death Eater responsible for the recent attacks on Hogwarts. I’ve been sent to investigate you.”

Now would be a good time to explain exactly who was responsible for the attacks on Hogwarts, but Crowley had sworn to secrecy. He was not about to turn in a rogue 11-year-old who’s emotions were tied to his magic into the Ministry of Magic. He was an enormous liability, and there was no conceivable way they wouldn’t take action.

“Does the Mmm- Mi- eh, Ministry investigate every wild accusation they recieve, or is it just my lucky day?” he asked incredulously.

“It came from a source they decided was reliable. You also have connections to Death Eaters.” 

“What? You mean my _ vegetable mother? _ You think I’m in cahoots with her? ‘Yes, Mum, twitch your eyelids if you mean for me to have a forest attack the place of work I depend on for survival’,” he mocked in an over-enthusiastic voice. 

“Look,” Harry said, feeling annoyed. He and Crowley had been too sarcastic when they were in school for them to be anything resembling friends, “It’s a school. We both know parents get a _ bit _ twitchy when they worry their kids are being taught by someone dangerous. They need to know they can trust you.” 

“And you? As a parent, what do you think? Do you trust me with your kids?” Anthony combatted defensively, eyes boring into Harry. He was pulling out every argument he could manage.

The Auror looked conflicted, and finally admitted, “I do. James adores you, and Albus wouldn’t shut it about your class all summer. You’ve been there for both of them when they were going through it. From one cursed boy to another, I know you’re just a victim of the stigmas held against you. But I’m not here as a parent, Cra- Crowley, or as a schoolmate. I have to do my job, and that’s to investigate you.” 

Several beats of silence passed as Crowley stared into the swirling liquid in his mug, nails picking at a chip in the handle of it. He had no idea what he’d done to deserve this. He was a good teacher. He loved his students. He was dedicated to his work and was a staunch advocate for Muggle-borns and half-bloods. He hadn’t spoken to a Death Eater in decades. He’d spent the last twenty years trying to undo the damage from a curse they wielded to wound the world. This wasn’t right. 

“Why didn’t they send Emiliano Heller?” he finally asked. 

“C’mon, Crowley, that’d be like the Ministry having me investigate a Weasley. Big conflict of interest. Besides, he’s in the International Affairs unit.”

“Don’t you think if I was responsible for these attacks I wouldn’t have nearly died at the hands of the Dementors? Why would I have been the first responder to the forest situation?” 

Harry looked at him uncomfortably. There was nothing he could say that he hadn’t already, so he said nothing. 

“This is Goodbody’s doing, isn’t it?” Crowley hissed.

“Dunno,” the other wizard said, honestly.

Anthony set his mug down to hide his shaking hands, swallowing hard as he desperately fought to suppress his rising emotions and building tears. He was _ not _ about to cry in front of Harry Potter. Another couple moments passed as he tried to compose himself, “How does it work?” 

“I take all your belongings from your office and quarters, we inspect them, we bring them back in a few days. If we don’t find anything, you’re in the clear. I’m- er- here to collect them now.” 

Crowley’s heart skipped a beat as he remembered his lost Time-Turner. Ever since Halloween, he’d been unable to find it. If the Ministry found that combined with his notes on Time Magic, he’d be fired for sure, and maybe arrested. 

“Now?” he asked quietly.

“Er… yeah, sorry,” Harry replied lamely. 

He allowed the Herbologist to compose himself again, though Crowley seemed to be entering something closer to a trance-like state. 

“Even my plants?” he asked almost inaudibly. 

The Auror cleared his throat and nodded, unable to look at his old schoolmate without being overwhelmed with guilt.

“They’ll die if no one takes care of them, even for a few days,” he lamented pitifully, pouring all his heartache over the entire situation into his inquiries about his plants.

“I’ll… er… I can get someone to look after them,” Harry compromised, wishing they’d sent someone else to do this.

“Right… eh… gh… this one needs to be watered three times a day. The Valerian’s soil needs to remain damp, but don’t over water it either. The three on the left only need to be watered once daily, and the other one only on Thursday. The stromanthe needs just an ounce of fertilizer mixed into its soil every morning. The puffapods can’t be in the sun during the height of the day, but still need a good amount of light in the morning and just before sunset. And then there’s- should I write this down?” he rambled.

Harry stared blankly at the plants, then slowly turned back to Crowley, “Er, you know what? I’ll check them out before I go.”

“Oh,” the Herbologist said, “thanks.” He stood, reaching to gather the materials for his book. 

“Sorry, Crowley, you can’t take anything,” Potter mumbled, bracing himself as Anthony inhaled deeply, looking very much like he was suppressing a loud scream. 

The professor leaned forward on his desk for several seconds, pacing his breathing before finally managing out through gritted teeth, “Right. I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

“Right,” Harry parotted. 

Crowley’s hands reached around, searching for something to grasp, before remembering they weren’t permitted to take anything. He awkwardly straightened a stack of papers before righting his robes and heading out the office door that led to the corridor. 

An episode of dissociation tangled around his mind. This was all too much. The idea that he would have to leave this place he’d called home for nearly twenty years was too daunting to entertain. The world around him blurred as all he could allow himself to think about was finding a way to stop. He didn’t want to feel anymore. He didn’t want to remember this. He didn’t want to torment himself for three straight days wondering if his life was about to be ripped apart at the seams. 

A good choice at the time would be to go to Azira. Azira, who always could calm him down. Azira, who always knew exactly what to say. But Crowley wasn’t in a state to make good choices. Instead, his feet carried him towards the potions lab. Several students attempted to greet him, but he floated past with no reaction, his mind on a different plane of existence. He rushed through the dungeons, breezing through the laboratory. Anathema wasn’t there, that made this easier. No questions to answer or objections to overcome. 

He burst into the store room, towered high with different sizes and shapes of vials that contained colorful arrays of potions. The catalogue was pulled off the nearest shelf and dropped unceremoniously onto the stone floor. Crowley dropped to his knees, flipping the book open and using a painted purple nail to scan the effects column. He would settle for almost anything here, ‘Momentary forgetfulness’, ‘relaxation’, ‘sedative’, anything would do. Under one potion listing, he read the words ‘dreamy mental state’, and without reading any of the other descriptions, he found the correlating potion. The desperate man pressed his thumb against the cork of the bottle containing a thick purple sludge, popping it off and chugging it without hesitation. 

It tasted abhorrent, and he couldn’t care less.

* * *

“Oh, that’s too kind, Daisy, are you entirely sure?” 

Azira stood in the kitchen. Dozens of house-elves bustled past, toting trays piled high with food and pots of boiling liquids. In his hands he held a full-sized, mouth-watering Fresh Fruit Tart. 

“Oh yes! Daisy is happy to give this to Master Fell! Daisy made it fresh just for him! Perhaps Master Fell can share it with his friends?” the tiny female elf peeped, looking entirely pleased with herself. 

“Thank you so much, Dear Girl, I think I will,” Azira reassured. He offered the elf a warm smile before carefully navigating his exit, avoiding interfering the paths of any of the other scrambling creatures. 

As of late, he’d been making frequent visits to the kitchens towards the early afternoon. The wizard had been plagued with stress over his new appeal to Crowley, and snacks served as a useful and much-enjoyed distraction. 

When an adult figure abruptly crashed into Azira, he struggled to avoid dropping the dessert.

“Oh! Sorry Azira,” rushed out Professor Device, who had been attempting to read a student’s pathetic excuse for a half-finished essay and brazenly walk forth simultaneously. She was just returning from chasing said student down to the Hufflepuff dormitories after they’d attempted to leave without turning their homework in. 

“No worries, my dear. Say, would you care to enjoy this with me? It’s far too much for me to eat alone.” 

The witch eyed the dessert appraisingly before shrugging indifferently and smiling at Azira, “sure, couldn’t hurt. I didn’t have much lunch today so I am quite hungry. Let’s go and enjoy it in my office. We’ll have less interruptions than the library.” 

Her friend seemed to be intrigued by the offer of a pester-free environment, and matched her pace as he accompanied her down to the dungeons. The corridors grew less busy as only the occasional Slytherin would pass by. 

“Sooo,” Anathema started, failing at an attempt to appear innocent in her line of questioning, “We haven’t really had a proper conversation, just the two of us, since we went to London, hmm?”

Azira was none the wiser of her objective, as he always fiercely believed everyone he spoke to had only the best intentions. He smiled at her obliviously, “I suppose not! I’m so sorry for it, Dear Girl. Is there something you’ve wanted to discuss?”

She tried to pull down the corners of her mouth to mask the mischievous grin forming, “Oh it’s just- I noticed you’ve been acting quite oddly around Crowley, lately. And I couldn’t help but wonder if something happened between you, you know, _ after I fell asleep?” _

Her colleague averted his gaze, swallowing hard, and the corner of Anathema’s mouth turned upwards. 

“No, of course not. I just brushed his hair for a few moments and went to bed.”

“... You’ve been acting like a shameful school boy because you brushed his hair? I don’t think so. Dirty dreams, Azira?” 

His ears turned red.

“That’s- ! No, it’s-… ,” he paused to think of how he might honestly defend himself against the allegations. Since that night, there had been dreams, which did indeed contribute to his inflating sense of shame. He finally came up with an answer, pleased with his ability to both dodge the question and avoid lying, “That’s not what happened that night.” 

“Hmmm, then what did?”

“Anathema, _ please, _I really would rather not discuss this.”

“Why? What are you hiding?” A moment passed of Anathema squinting scrutinously at his pinkening face. She gasped in realization, grinning like a mad woman, “Azira, did you think of Crowley while-? You know, ‘enjoying yourself’?”

Azira nearly tripped over his own feet. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and straightened his bowtie, trying to regain his composure. But it had already been lost, and Anathema couldn’t be more pleased about it. 

“I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating, Dear Girl.”

“Oh come on, jump his bones. You _ know _ he’d be eager. He’d probably let you do anything. Hell, you could leave him tied up naked in the Forbidden Forest and he’d _ thank _ you for it.”

Azira looked as if he might die of embarrassment where he stood, but he couldn’t help but consider Anathema’s point. Crowley had most certainly displayed interest before, though the librarian wasn’t sure if the flirting was genuine or if it was playful teasing. The witch seemed to be pretty sure of the statement, perhaps she knew something Azira didn’t. It might be awkward to sleep with such a close friend, but it didn’t have to be. Crowley seemed perfectly content keeping sex casual, as he was unashamed of speaking about one night stands and friends with benefits. Professor Fell weighed the pros against the cons, “You really think he’d be interested? Has he said something to you about it?”

The witch looked overjoyed that he was asking in a manner that appeared quite sincere. Just as she was about to answer, they passed the potions lab, and heard a great ruckus of metal clanging against stone. 

“What now?” Anathema sighed in irritation, aggressively swinging open the laboratory door. Both her and her companion’s jaw dropped at the scene they had stumbled upon. 

Crowley stood atop a table triumphantly, below him lay a metal cage containing several frogs ribbiting loudly in alarm. The cage door had fallen open, and the wizard waved his arms aggressively towards them, hissing, “GO! Get out of here! Before she gets back! Be free of your oppressor!” 

“Anthony,... you okay there, buddy?” Anathema asked, quite startled by the wild behavior. When the pureblood’s head shot up, and he raised his glasses to see who the intruders were, the pupils of his eyes were so dilated they nearly eclipsed the entirety of each iris

“SHIT,” he barked, “It’s the fuzz! GO! SCATTER!”

The gangly figure dropped down, barrel-rolling off the table and grunting as he hit the floor. He got on his elbows and knees, army-crawling on the floor beside the frogs, who were lazily hopping away. 

“Oh Dear,” Azira said as Anathema beelined towards the store room.

“Crowley, what did you drink?” she said flatly. 

“BACK, you mad dictator! You can’t HURT them anymore!” he shouted, beginning to grab at the confused frogs and fling them through the air, “Fly away! Quick- fly! Fly! Flap your webbed little feet!” 

He looked up in confusion when his nose nearly pressed against a pair of brown loafers. His golden eyes peered upwards, through his sunglasses, and saw a very concerned looking librarian. Azira kneeled down, pulling Crowley off the floor.

“My dear, are you feeling alright? What’s happened?” he asked gently, holding his friend by his forearms. 

“Angel! Thank Satan you’re here! They were crying. They asked me for help. They said she’s a monster! But it’s okay, I liberated them! I’m a bloody hero!” 

Anathema rounded the tables, coming towards him quickly. Anthony jumped back, crouching down and wielding his hands as if he was about to deliver a karate chop to her throat, “Back, you beast!”

She paused for a moment, looking between him and Azira briefly before continuing forward, “He-”

“Don’t take my eyes out!” Crowley cried, jumping behind Azira and attempting to hide, “That’s what she does to frogs, you know?” 

“You’re not a frog, Crowley,” the Muggle-born reassured sympathetically, allowing the spindly figure to wind around him. 

“I wouldn’t bother trying to convince him,” Anathema started, “He’s drank enough thestral tranquilizing potion to knock out a full-grown stallion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for updating so late in the day! More delusional Crowley to come. 
> 
> Follow me @Get_wrexed on Twitter or at getwrexed on tumblr!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema and Azira babysit a potion-happy Crowley who can't help but tempt. Azira confronts Gabriel. It doesn't go quite the way he planned. Crowley has a revelation.

“No, no, don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“It’s okay, little baby pumpkin. Y- yo- you’ll be big and orange someday. November’s not too late!” 

“I’m not a pumpkin.”

The tall redhead stumbled back and forth as he aggressively stroked his hand against the front of the Potion Master’s face, pausing only to shove a finger to her mouth. She leaned backwards, black eyes crossed as they focused on the long digit at her lips.

“Shhhh, shhhhhh, don’t speak. I’ll m- mae- make you cupcakes.”

Before the bemused witch could respond, the wizard slipped out of her hold and dodged under Azira’s arm, grabbing several bottles of miscellaneous potion ingredients. Anathema attempted to chase after him only to find he was much more slippery than any serpent. 

“No, no, no, no! CROWLEY!” 

Amber eyes flicked up at her, staring unwaveringly as the contents of six different bottles oozed onto the laboratory floor. 

“Don’t-”

The delighted man crouched forward, gazing into her dark eyes excitedly and raising his arms readily over the mess-in-progress.

“I’m warning you, Anthony.”

With great enthusiasm, Crowley smacked his hands down into the several different textures and colors spread across the ground, mixing them together on the stone until a frothing grey goo coated his long fingers. He whistled idly while he worked. Anathema had to take a prolonged moment to keep herself from wrapping her hands around his neck.

“Don’t you want cupcakes, you stupid baby pumpkin? I’m making them just for you.” 

“I don’t,” she sighed.

“Oh,” he said, looking down at the mess he’d created, then shrugging as he fell back onto his haunches, “That’s okay, there’s far too many horned slugs in this batter.” 

“Oh dear,” Azira said, managing to say little else these last several minutes of his and Anathema’s combined efforts failing to subdue the delusional man. 

The witch among them kept her patience, but only barely as she gritted her teeth, “What on earth could have triggered such a lapse in judgement that he’d down a potion without even reading what it was?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” her sober colleague responded. 

“Quick! Get off the floor!” Crowley cried, clambering onto the surface of the nearest work bench and hopping haphazardly across several others on his way to the other side of the room.

“Anthony, dear,” Azira said anxiously, scurrying after him and holding his arms out in preparation to catch the teetering figure balancing on one foot, “Please come down!” 

“I can’t, Angel! It’s lava! Of c- coa- course you can stand in it; you can do anything! Bet you could walk on water.” 

“The floor’s not lava, I promise, please come down,” the blond pleaded, holding his hands up to the pure-blood.

“Dice que el piso no es lava,” Crowley explained. His focus waned in and out. He slowly began turning in circles on the table, transfixed on a floating object that was unseen to his companions. 

“Who are you talking to, Dear Boy?”

“The tiny blue whales, don’t you see them? They’re wearing top hats and monocles. They came to visit all the way from Equador! They said you’re lying ‘bout the floor.”

“Well, who do you believe, me or the whales?” Azira offered with a warm smile. 

The confused wizard leaned over to look cautiously on the ground, then back to the angel in front of him. With a nervous little groan, he took Professor Fell’s hand, sitting on the edge of the wooden workbench and cautiously pressing a tip toe to the floor. A loud gasp escaped him, and he dropped both feet to the ground with a loud smack of his boots, jumping from one foot to the other and marveling, “I’m _immortal_.”

“Oh dear. No. No, you’re not, Crowley, but you _are_ very brave, well done,” Azira entertained him, clasping one of the Herbologist’s hands in his own and patting it comfortingly. No doubt things would escalate quite quickly if he allowed Crowley to run around believing he was invincible. 

The redhead beamed at the praise, puffing out his chest. He allowed the shorter figure to guide him to an empty cauldron and clean his hands with a towel before wrapping them around a licorice root, “Will you stir this dear? Wouldn’t want it to burn.” 

“Is this my new wand?” Anthony gasped quietly, overjoyed as he clasped the root in his hand and gazed hopefully at Azira. This whole situation was quite ridiculous, and it would certainly take a trip south if anyone outside the room were to discover the man’s state, but the spectating wizard would be lying if he were to suggest there wasn’t something incredibly endearing about seeing his friend in the childlike state of wonder. 

“Absolutely, all yours,” Azira supported, taking a moment to ensure his new charge was transfixed before making it through the ruined room back to Anathema. She gazed at the disaster zone, unable to decide if she was enraged, amused, or impressed. The chalk board that had once featured meticulously written notes and lists on it was obscured in several scribbles that had been applied when Crowley decided he had been hired to illustrate A History of Hogwarts. A variety of mundane classroom objects lined the walls of the room, believed to serve as protection against impending boggarts. Several cauldrons of varying sizes were stacked high on the centermost table, serving as a makeshift drum set built when they had been ‘serenaded’ with a percussion-only performance of _Fat Bottomed Girls._

The witch held her breath for a solid thirty seconds, amazed when Crowley’s unwavering concentration on stirring a non-existent potion finally yielded a moment of peace. 

“I… best be getting back to the library,” Azira started.

“Oh no. Nope. No fucking way. You are _not_ leaving the Weird Sisters’ newest member here with me,” the witch spat out defensively. 

“I don’t mean to- it’s just that I really do have work to do,” the wizard explained guiltily, worrying at his lip. 

“So far you’re the only one that can seem to manage Loony McGoo over here, so here’s what I propose: you take him back to his office so he can make a mess that _he_ has to clean up, I tidy up here and take approximately five shots of vodka, and then I’ll come take over babysitting so you can get to work.” 

Azira found himself unable to argue, as he didn’t feel particularly comfortable abandoning Crowley in his current state to begin with, “Can’t we… I don’t know, give him something else to make him come down a bit? He seems to be in such a fragile state. I’d hate him getting hurt” 

“Not unless you want him down and out for a good few days. He took a pretty ridiculous amount, but he’ll be tuckered out in a couple hours and then pass out ‘til morning,” she mumbled, “At least- I think. Never exactly hung around the crowds that recreationally took tranquilizing potion intended for massive magical beasts.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t recreational…”

“So what, it just fell into his mouth?” Anathema asked incredulously. 

“These co- cul- colors are getting so loud,” Crowley complained, “I think it’s over-brewed.” 

“Oh no, you’ve done marvelously, Dear Boy. What a great help you are. It’s time to go back to your office now,” Azira praised, exchanging a nervous look with Anathema as he made his way to collect Crowley. 

“I don’t want to go alone! There’s Nargles out there, Luna Lovegood told me all ‘bout it second year!”

“You won’t be alone. I’ll protect you from the Nargles. I promise. Don’t you trust me, Anthony?” the librarian asked innocently.

“‘Course I do,” Anthony attested so honestly that it made Azira’s heart squeeze in his chest, “Do you even have to ask?” 

“Good, let’s be on then,” his guardian pressed gently, taking Crowley’s arm in his own.

“Goodbye, little pumpkin!”

“See you soon, Crowley,” Anathema sighed, giving him a half-hearted pat on the shoulder before turning to the room that had once been her potions lab, deciding where to possibly start. 

The journey to the Herbology professor’s office proved to be much more difficult than Azira possibly could have anticipated. In an effort to avoid any unpredictable encounters with professors or students, he made the decision to navigate the outdoors. 

The sky was a gloomy, overcast, uninspired shade of grey. Lazy snowflakes danced downwards, much less daunting than the aggressive bits of ice that had crashed down from the heavens with a vengeance the day before. Both the men’s shoes and socks became soaked in the thirty centimeters of snow. While the detour was undeniably the best choice, the journey was hard for the cold-blooded man he escorted. Less than halfway through their trek, Crowley let out a great whine and fell sideways into the fresh, powdery precipitation, squirming until he lay on his back.

“I’m so _tired_,” he complained. 

“I know, Dear Boy, it’s only a bit further. You’ll feel so much better when we get you into the warm. I’ll read to you if you’d like,” Azira attempted to lure his charge. Once the redhead began making a snow angel, he knew he should stop him before he became too cold to move, but the joy on his face made the task a difficult one. 

“Look! I’m making a sssssnow-you!” 

The blond smiled at the confused sentiment, “It looks quite lovely.” 

“Come make a friend for snow-Azira!” 

“Crowley, aren’t you cold?”

“Aww I can wait! C’mon in, Angel! Water’s fine!” 

In Professor Fell’s experience, the more inebriated Crowley was, the more genuine and pure-natured the temptations he offered became. They were honest, vulnerable, and pleading, and Azira had paramount difficulty in refusing to indulge them. With a quick look around, he only surveyed a blanket of soft, white, unmarked snow. It appeared no one dared to go out into the cold today. 

“Well, alright. Quickly though! Here I come!” 

The Muggle-born spun on his heel, grinning at Crowley’s giddy giggling as he spread his arms and fell backwards into the fluffy substance coating the ground with a small ‘oof’. The snow melted much more quickly under Azira, as he was much warmer. A shiver crawled up his spin and he yelped at the cold, drawing a louder laugh from his companion. He made quick work of drawing his arms and legs through the snow, huffing when he found it satisfactory. 

“How’s that?” 

Upon turning to receive Crowley’s response, his breath was drawn from his lungs, and he was rendered unable to coax it back in. Not even slightly due to the icy substance surrounding him, he was shaken to his core. Crowley’s glasses were pushed up onto his head, still. A gleeful grin was worn on his face, skin wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. His rich red hair provided a stark contrast to the pale snow it was splayed out upon, and the sunshine provided from the stars in his eyes was warm enough to deem the chill piercing Azira’s flesh utterly insignificant. He reached out his hand, grasping the tips of his angel’s well-manicured fingers into his own. Crowley’s digits were freezing, they sent a jolt up through his companion’s arm and deep into his heart. It wasn’t the same as the cold from crystallized water beneath him, or the smarting wind in the air. This cold was one that made Azira feel alive in the way only Crowley managed to impart upon him. 

“Much better,” Anthony crooned, “Now you’re not alone.” 

The sun in his eyes finally broke away from the sky in Azira’s, and the librarian finally remembered to breathe. Crowley meticulously rose to his feet in an effort to preserve his art. He reached down to take Azira’s hand, bracing himself and leaning backwards onto his feet as he yanked the other man up off the ground. 

“If you made me, did I make you?” the shorter wizard asked playfully, taking it upon himself to brush the snow from his companion’s hair with equal amounts of consideration and self-indulgence. 

The taller pursed his lips as he examined their hard work, carefully tip toeing around the imprint Azira had left and sticking his fingers on either side of the head to create the illusion of horns.

“Th-th-there!” he said with a shiver, thrusting his arms forward and looking quite pleased with himself, “That’s a bit more like it, eh?”

The librarian laughed, unable to argue, “I suppose it does. Now, are you quite ready to go inside?” 

“Do you think the mermaids want to have tea? Do they drink tea? Can they under water? Wouldn’t really work, would it? Physics. I’m going to ask anyway,” Crowley said with the confidence of a man wholeheartedly embracing ignorance. Azira recalled the purpose of his mission all at once as his charge used his long, agile legs to scurry away from him towards the lake. 

“Wait! Don’t go in the lake, Crowley! It’s too cold!” 

The redhead was already pulling off his robes as he broke into a run, preparing to leap into the water shielded only by a thin layer of ice. 

“_Crowley,”_ Azira urged nervously, beginning to jog in a futile attempt to catch up to the troublemaker before he could enter the lake. He picked up the robes as he passed them, throwing them over his arm. 

“Chamomile or English Breakfast?” Crowley shouted as he took one last giant leap, creating quite a spectacle as the ice cracked around him and the water splashed upwards onto his sweater. He was submerged down to his thighs. Azira’s face turned pale as he rushed near the shore, watching in horror as the delirious man plunged his arms down into the lake and fished around near the bottom. He seemed to find purchase with a type of aquatic plant he immediately uprooted and held up inquisitively for his friend to see, the weed writhing in his hand as he did so, “Did you lose a shoe?”

A mixture of anxiety and worry coursed through Azira’s veins as he looked onto the scene of the soaking wet Herbologist. He had only on one occasion persuaded Crowley to regale him with the gist of his curse. His great-grandfather, for some reason unbeknownst to Azira, had been cursed while transforming back from a snake. He and every male heir that would become of him would be plagued to carry the specific serpentine features that would display to all the world what and who the Crawly’s truly were- snakes. Crowley had smarmily noted that it was a good thing he had no intention of procreating. There were only three features of the curse Azira had noticed: the serpentine eyes, the forked tongue, and Crowley’s inability to maintain body-temperature the way warm-blooded creatures should. Exposure like this to such harsh temperatures could potentially kill him. 

“_Anthony J. Crowley,”_ he commanded with a presence the pure-blood had only heard from him once before, “Come here this moment!” 

For a moment, the figure stood frozen in place, golden eyes wide and fixated on Azira. As if he were in a trance, Anthony loosened his grip on the organism in his hand, letting it splash down into the waves below. He’d seen what happened to those who didn’t heed Azira Fell when he carried that tone, and he dared not disobey. His feet mechanically trudged forth past the shore despite his limbs growing stiff and noncompliant. By the time he made it to the location indicated by his guardian’s demandingly pointed finger, it was clear he was having difficulty moving at all. His teeth chattered noisily and the pink complexion he so often sported around the man he was so fond of was now a light blue. 

“I d-d-don’t-t-t think I can m-mm-move,” Anthony whimpered, his arms frozen across his chest as they uselessly attempted to generate warmth. 

Azira finally allowed his features to soften as Crowley’s transfixed gaze locked onto him and awaited his next command. 

“Oh dear,” he tutted with a sympathetic sigh, “Are you able to change into your snake form?” 

His friend looked anxious at this, eyes bouncing back and forth between Azira and the cold snow beneath him. 

“It will be okay, Crowley. Trust me,” he reassured, holding out a hand to the shivering figure. 

It wasn’t hesitation that took Crowley so long. He never hesitated when his angel requested his trust, as he’d full heartedly given it decades ago. It took what appeared to be a great amount of concentration for him to reach out his long, thin hand to take the soft palm that had been offered. Azira met him half-way, and with what appeared to be a great deal of insecurity on his companion’s part, he soon held a serpent in his hand. The red-bellied snake flicked out his tongue in a botched attempt to hiss at the cold, trying and failing to recoil inward toward himself. 

The human wizard quickly unbuttoned the top fastening of his vest, depositing the poor creature into the garment and holding him carefully as he wrapped his robes around himself to trap any heat the best he could. His feet carried them faster than he ever believed they could have, past the greenhouses and towards the familiar ivy-covered outdoor entrance to Crowley’s office. Towards the end of the trek, his heart was pounding with worry at the motionless figure in his arms. That was, until a tiny serpentine head slithered upwards to curl into the curve of his neck, desperately soaking in the warmth found there. He breathed a sigh of relief, opening the door to the office and wasting no time in igniting the fire. 

The snake that had been quite enjoying sapping him of his body heat hissed as he withdrew it from his clothing, setting it in front of the fire. 

“Come on, then. Transform back. We’ll get you dried off,” he encouraged, pleased as the serpent reluctantly morphed to present as a decidedly less blue man. Crowley squinted as the pear wand was pointed at him, forgetting what was happening in his dazed state, “_Tergeo.”_

The liquid seemed to evaporate from the very fibers of the fine clothing, and Azira wasted no time before flicking yet another pattern through the air, _“Focillo.”_

Crowley visibly relaxed as he soaked in the effects of the warming charm, sighing deeply, “Ughh. Thank you, Angel.” 

“Of course, Dear Boy,” Azira reassured, wrapping Crowley’s robes around their owner’s shivering shoulders. He turned to the desk in the room to withdraw the blankets he knew were inside, knowing full well the man loved to nest when cold. He paused. Something wasn’t right. Not only was he unable to find what he was looking for, but the entire drawer seemed to be missing its contents. Daring to snoop, he opened a couple others, again finding nothing. His eyes peered over the edge of the usually chaotic desk to find it entirely barren. Finally, he stood, looking to the bookshelves below the windowsills and finding that, beneath the ever-present plants, they were devoid of their inhabitants. He realized now the room was empty of everything but the portraits, furnishings, and plants.

“Crowley,” he said slowly, turning to the man who was squatted before the fire and staring at the flames in a trance, “Where are your things?” 

“An au- an a, auro- an _orangutan_ took them,” he mumbled back. 

The blond stared at the back of his head, desperately confused. 

“He means an auror, I’m afraid,” Herbert Beery said from his frame on the wall.

Azira raised his eyebrows, holding his arms behind his back as he turned to properly face the painted wizard, “An auror? Whatever for?”

“Ministry’s put him under investigation. Think he’s a Death Eater. Think he’s responsible for all the nonsense happening lately. Probably wouldn’t if they saw the nonsense we saw him get up to here, the great buffoon. No idea why they don’t ever think to ask the portraits, it’s as if they forget we exist!” 

“That does sound difficult,” Azira sympathized instinctively, only half-listening to the end of Beery’s rant. His mind was buzzing.

This explained everything. A litany of emotions tore him in separate directions. First was an overwhelming swell of anger that someone would dare accuse Crowley of such monstrosities. Crowley, who was so beloved by his students. Crowley, whose face could light up a room at the mention of a rare plant. Crowley, who’d nearly died defending Hogwarts- not once, but twice. Next came grief. It was no secret that the pure-blood wizard had never learned to manage his negative emotions. The trait so many perceived as broodiness was a symptom of emotional neglect for all his fundamental years alongside the inability to process distress. Lastly came disappointment. Azira could only wonder why his friend hadn’t come to find him as soon as he’d received the crushing news. The coping mechanism he’d resorted to was absolutely unacceptable, dangerous, idiotic, and self-destructive. Anthony was too intelligent and too concerned about upkeeping his reputation for Azira to allow this misdemeanor to slide in any capacity. 

He tasted several forming lectures on the tip of his tongue at once. They died just as quickly when he turned to the sight of Crowley mirroring the movements of one of the portrait occupants near the fireplace. 

“When did I grow a beard?” 

“You haven’t, Crowley.” 

“This is a weird mirror, then.”

“I’m not a mirror, you daft fool,” the stately man within the frame scoffed, causing Crowley to leap back, falling over the arm of his sofa with a mangled shout. He squinted suspiciously at the wall-mounting before catching a glimpse of his plants out of the corner of his eye and gasping loudly. The heat was contributing considerably to another spike in energy, and Azira had to withhold a groan. The spindly figure somersaulted off the sofa, landing harshly on his arse as he crashed to the ground. He barely took time to rub his rear end before scrambling over to his plants.

“Have you met my friends?” he drawled inquisitively, crouching down and gesturing to the array of life with both arms.

Azira gave a half-hearted smile, his mind still far away as he attempted to appease his friend, “No- well, yes. We’ve crossed paths on several occasions, though I suppose you could say we were never formally introduced.” 

“Well let me do the honors!” Crowley offered enthusiastically. He began with a plant that looked like a variant of the one Azira had seen at the botanist in Hogsmeade. It sported white pods oozing a thick blue pus, balanced precariously on a long spiky stem, “This one I call Fern Lillypilly, a guy I once slept with, because it too is so nasty no one cares to examine the properties of its contents. I mean. Is it _really_ worth it? Gross. Oh! And this one’s Casper Doe.”

He gestured to the rare Niffler’s Fancy, with it’s beautiful shimmering copper leaves, “After another old fuck-buddy, because wow, yeah, it’s pretty, nice to look at, but it has absolutely no practical application. Nothing going on in there whatsoever. Zero useful content.”

Azira raised his brows, intrigued by the introduction’s slow transition into a colorful lesson about Crowley’s sexual history. 

“And then this one’s name is Harvey Strix,” he gestured to a simple flower of snowy white petals and a pretty disposition, “because it, like Harvey, begged me to take it home every time I saw it for five months straight, and when I finally did, what it put out was an incredible disappointment. Ah- and this one’s Jeremy.” 

The blond waited a beat for Crowley to elaborate, admiring the lovely purple-black berries sporting tiny, glowing, crescent shaped seeds. He realized as the plant-owner gazed at him expectantly that no further explanation was coming

“Why Jeremy?” he entertained him. 

“Oh, I dunno. Looks like a Jeremy, doesn’t he?” 

Azira gazed into Crowley’s cloudy eyes for a few prolonged moments, watching him stand with a wide stance in front of all the plants, looking quite pleased with himself.

“Well, very well met, all of you. And how are you feeling, Dear Boy?”

“I feel great! You?”

“Hm… I feel,” Azira started, withholding a laugh and reviewing all the new information he now obtained about Crowley’s typically very vaguely mentioned affairs. He understood now why his beau’s were never mentioned in detail and, furthermore, why Crowley had a strict no-romance policy, “Informed.”

“Good then!” Crowley cheered, “let’s celebrate!” 

“What did you have in mind?”

Crowley drummed his fingers on the smooth wood of his desk as he slid by, “Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

“Oh dear, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Crowley,” the librarian started, softly but with an undeniable firmness. 

The excitable wizard was already reaching deep in his drawers, so far that nearly the entire upper half of his body disappeared into it, his knees awkwardly bent on either side to brace himself.

“Where the hell did it go? Bloody Nargles! I told you!” he called from the confines of the expanded space. Slowly, his spindly legs relaxed, sliding against the floor so his lower half was comically spilled out of the drawer. 

“Crowley?” Azira asked nervously, hurrying forward and becoming startled as Crowley slid backwards out of it and splayed out on the rug. 

“Everything’s so slow all of a sudden,” he drawled, blinking slowly as he began to dissociate. 

“Do you want to sit down?” 

The Herbologist nodded his head lazily, taking Azira’s hand with gratitude and allowing himself to be guided to the couch.

“Read to me? Said you would,” he reminded.

“Of course, though I’m not sure I have anything that would be of interest to you!”

“That’s alright. Anything’s fine.” 

Azira complied with a comforting smile, reaching into the robe pocket he’d had cast an expansion charm on and withdrawing a Jane Austen novel he’d been re-reading. He sat next to Crowley, near the arm rest, and found his place before setting a steady pace with a clear, soothing voice that filled the void left in Crowley’s office. He was surprised when, after several minutes, he felt the light weight of Anthony’s body press against him, resting his head on his angel’s shoulder and draping an arm across his chest. The blond’s cheek pressed against the top of his friend’s head, and with a moment’s hesitation, he carefully raised his free hand to pet those red curls he was so fond of. Minding to keep it gentle, he curled his fingers into the soft locks, falling back into his reading and reveling in the feeling of Crowley’s body melting against his. 

Just as he believed the animagus had fallen asleep against him, he heard a barely intelligible mumble of, “Are we there yet?” 

“Are we where, Dear Boy?”

“Wherever this port key is taking us, we’ve been spinning for so long, I’m getting dizzy.” 

“We’re not going anywhere, I promise.”

“Angel.”

“Dearest?”

“Am I really?” 

“Of course! You’re right here with me, perfectly safe, and you’ll feel just tickety-boo by tomorrow.”

“N-nn-no, I mean am I really your dearest?” 

The question took Azira by surprise. He pursed his lips as he entertained the thought with his full consideration. Truly, he didn’t intend to use the endearment, but if he had to ask himself, he supposed Crowley truly was the most precious and irreplaceable part of his life. They’d only just come together fifteen months prior, and admittedly, he’d become quite attached. He couldn’t imagine a future in which he didn’t have the opportunity to become closer to him still. He longed to earn enough trust over many more years together for Crowley to unburden on him the secrets and pain he kept locked away so deeply inside. 

“I suppose you are, yes.” 

A staunch silence fell over them, only the crackling of the fire sounding through the near-empty room for a time. Crowley inhaled deeply, beginning to recite in an airy, dreamy voice,

_“But in the deep of my despair,_

_When dark my doom was writ,_

_Some saving hand was always there_

_To pull me from the Pit.”_

“That’s from a Robert W. Service composition,” Azira remarked in surprise. He’d never known Crowley to have the slightest interest in most literature, especially not poetry, “How do you know that poem?” 

“It’s yours.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s your poem.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Crowley.” 

Anthony lifted his head from Azira’s shoulder, and blue eyes gazed in wonder at the intensity of the stars within the golden pools. There was something there, something deep within them that was surfacing. It had always been there in the shadows. It was undeniable, and Azira had always seen it, always acknowledged the unknown force. But it had been obscured, subdued, hidden in the depths of Crowley’s overflowing fountains of unspoken emotion. Now, it was gaining form and becoming clear. The desperate wizard was bearing his soul to his angel: bravely, loudly, without any inhibition.

“We’ve been playing this game for so long. Have you ever wondered what it could be like if we ended it? Right now. Could you imagine?” 

All at once, Azira was struck with an epiphany. How many times had Crowley expressed this sentiment before? How many ways? How desperately and obviously had he spelled it out to him? 

Anthony loved him- was _in_ love with him. For the first time in their months together, the angel was unable to play ignorant. He remembered so distinctly every time the wizard had made his heart flutter. He had held sacred every adoring smile Crowley had ever given him. He’d noted every ridiculous extent the professor had gone through to do him favors, big and small, and then act like it had been nothing and for no reason. Every past indication of love was revealed in jarringly few moments.

He knew- everyone knew- that Crowley was only capable of loving things in one fashion: hopelessly, self-destructively, and with reckless abandon. He’d only been with someone who loved like Crowley once before- Cedric Diggory. Azira, when committing to love, supported his partner’s endeavors in all their passions. He’d encouraged Cedric’s pursuit of the other loves of his life- adventure, competition, and excitement. In turn, he’d witnessed him die. Ever since, Azira had never promised his heart to anyone who had the chance of chasing their passions to Death. Crowley would. Crowley _had._ If not for his unwavering love of Azira, he wouldn’t have nearly died. The librarian couldn’t handle that again; if Cedric’s death had stopped his life in its tracks, Crowley’s would be its demise.

Crowley was his dearest, truly. The dearest the Muggle-born wizard had ever had. He couldn’t imagine another love whose death would ever impact him the way Anthony’s would. It was impossible to return the sentiment of love. It would be repugnant to invite him into the cold embrace of death. The idea of even daring to try filled Azira with a dread that made his eyes water and a pain that reverberated through his chest. He resigned himself to protect his beloved’s life and his own heart. Still, how precious a gift it was he was being offered. How fragile and sweet was Crowley’s love. How deeply did he wish to hold and cherish it. 

Their noses were nearly touching as Azira was forced to face his deepest fears and most hidden anxieties. Their lips were millimeters apart, and Anthony waited. He waited for acknowledgement, for confirmation. He waited with such hope. The amber snake eyes burned with a brightness, a ferocity unlike anything they’d exhibited before. Azira likened him to the sun, and, in this instance, himself to Icarus. He was flying closer than ever, and he felt the soft feathers of his wings begin to singe. 

He sucked in air, turned his head away harshly, and scrambled for the only words he could think of.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

An agonizing silence permeated the air. The pressure of Crowley’s body against his own was immediately relieved. Azira couldn’t bare to look. After several moments, his friend adjusted to sit a foot or so away and slumped back against the back cushion of his sofa. 

“Oh,” Crowley finally remarked. 

Another considerable amount of time passed before a marriage between curiosity and anxiety forced Azira to tilt his chin and scan the face of the man who was so dear to him. He was slightly surprised and immensely relieved to find no trace of heartbreak residing there. Instead, Crowley seemed to align himself with an emotion akin to complete puzzlement. The angel had never wished to have a talent for Legilimency more in his entire life. 

The shorter of the two wizards shot upright with a start when the door opened. The taller didn’t seem bothered, instead stretching out and lazily twisting himself to see who had entered. 

“Anathema!” he expressed with a tired cheerfulness, pleased to see someone who never withheld from putting sense in his head. He needed some of that right about now.

“Ah, so you know who I am now? I’m not an evil dictator or a pumpkin?” she teased, relieved to find the man much more subdued than he had been earlier. She made her way over to the pair, gesturing for Crowley to lift his legs so she could position herself beneath them.

“‘Course I know you, how could I forget my baby sister?” he drawled endearingly, taking his time in complying with her request and squirming around to get comfortable after he did so. 

“Crowley, we’re not related.”

“No, never had any siblings, other than the three Heller kids, anyway. They adopted me when I was alone without a family at Hogwarts. Figured back when we became friends that I’d do the same for you.” 

Anathema seemed surprised at the now incredibly open and sleepy state Anthony had seemed to slip into at the mercy of the potion. She exchanged weighted looks with Azira. Neither of them had ever witnessed him so vulnerable- so unafraid of judgement. 

“Why’ve you done that?” she asked curiously. Her and Crowley had been friends for six long years. Prior to Azira’s arrival, they had spent nearly all their free time together. Indeed, it had built into a playful, loving rivalry and a multi-faceted friendship. The appearance of the librarian had the witch feeling a good amount of contempt coupled with some jealousy in the beginning. She’d realized upon befriending him and watching Crowley’s love of him grow even stronger that it didn’t diminish their unique bond at all. Still, she’d never heard him speak in such an openly fond way to her, and she wished to milk the opportunity. 

“‘Cause you were pitiful!” he lied, finally showing some of the token redirection that was a staple of rational, self-preserving, sober Crowley, “So bored and lonely all the time. Lost little lamb, you. Needed _someone_ decent to have mercy on you. Mercy’s not my strong suit, but what can I say? We all have lapses in judgement.” 

“Glad to see you coming down, Crowley,” Anathema responded with a sarcastic grin, rolling her eyes, “Right then, I think I can handle it from here on out. Off to work with you, Azira.”

The blond had entirely forgotten about any duties other than caring for Crowley. However, after such an emotionally charged exchange, he was eager to give his friend a chance to process. The poor wizard was suffering so many dilemmas already, Azira was reluctant to stack onto it with his presence. 

“Of course. Do feel better, Dear Boy,” Azira reached down to squeeze the Herbologist’s hand, giving him a warm smile. 

“Anything you say, Angel,” Crowley hummed back, sleepily blinking up at him. 

As he left the office and the company of his conflicted companion, working was the last thing on the librarian’s mind. The rage he’d felt earlier returned, and as he breezed through his duties the rest of the evening, all he could fixate on was a discussion with the man he was sure was the culprit behind causing the whole sordid affair. 

* * *

“You called for an investigation on him?” Azira asked incredulously after bursting into Gabriel Goodbody’s office. His presence was commanding, but the occupant of the room didn’t bother looking up from the array of parchment littering his desk.

“Azira. Good evening. Feel free to come in. Is there something I can help you with?” he asked, finally looking up and offering forth his token facade of a smile as if he hadn’t heard exactly what the wizard had said. 

With those eyes on him, Azira felt less brave. Those eyes that, alongside Michael’s, had gleamed as the pair tortured and ridiculed him his entire childhood. They made him feel as weak and helpless now as he had felt then. This wasn’t about him, however. It was about Crowley, and just like in Dueling Club, that gave him the strength he needed to square his shoulders and face his tormentor. 

“You submitted false information about Crowley to the Ministry,” he said flatly, holding his arms behind his back and standing his ground. 

“Would you like to sit down?” Gabriel asked, continuing to radiate the dismissive attitude towards Azira’s accusation.

“No. I don’t think I will,” Azira said decisively. 

“Alright then,” the larger figure mused, standing and slowly stalking around his desk to lean against the edge of it nearest Azira and properly stare his accuser down from a more powerful position. The blond had to stop himself from taking a step backwards, “That’s quite an accusation to throw around, are you sure you have the evidence to back it up? How can you be sure someone else didn’t report him? How can you know so certainly that he’s not a Death Eater?” 

It felt as if he towered over Azira by hundreds of yards. That penetrating gaze pierced him down to his soul. If Azira’s blue eyes were the sky, then Gabriel’s were a cold, lifeless, unforgiving ocean. The librarian’s heartbeat quickened in his ears. Crowley was suffering, he reminded himself. 

“Because we’re close. I know him. He’s not a Death Eater. He’s on our side.” 

“‘Our side’,” Gabriel repeated slowly, laughing slightly at the ridiculous notion, “How much do you know about the Crawly’s, Azira?” 

This caused pause. Professor Fell worried his hands behind his back. He’d always been curious why the Crawly’s had a darker reputation than other Death Eater families. He’d considered looking it up on numerous occasions, but the subject proved itself a sensitive one for Crowley. The pure-blood could share with Muggle-born when he was ready, until then Azira would not betray him. His trust was far more valuable than satiated curiosity.

“A person isn’t their family. He wouldn’t have changed his name if he was proud of where he came from or if he identified with their values,” he dodged the question.

Gabriel appraised him with narrowed eyes, lacing his hands together in front of him, “A war is coming, Azira.”

This rendered the shorter man silent, breaking his chain of thought. He swallowed hard, waggling his eyebrows the slightest bit in concern before repeating, short of breath, “A war?”

“A war. Between the pure-bloods and the decent folk of the wizarding world. The Death Eaters aren’t satisfied being shamed into hiding. The pure-bloods feel their power slipping and the tides turning. They’re afraid. They’re going to act. We have to put them in their place. We- Michael, me, the Minister of Magic, every person of mixed blood who love this Wizarding World, _you_\- we won’t be reigned over and shamed again. It’s them, or us. Crowley is them. Death Eater or not, you’ve seen the way he flexes his privilege, having grown up his whole life a pure-blood prince among wizards. You’ve seen the way he’s shamed Muggles. The way he says ‘Muggle-born’ as if it’s as if it’s a naughty word. He fell from grace the moment he was born into a family that followed Voldemort, that worshipped Muggle-murdering ideals.” 

“No- no. Crowley would never support murdering _anybody_.” 

“Is that so? He used the killing curse on his own father. Can you ever truly know a person like that? Can you trust that you know what he’s capable of and what he isn’t?” 

Azira responded only with an expression of complete and utter disbelief. His mouth felt dry. His throat felt swollen shut. He half-heartedly shook his head in denial. Crowley had trouble hurting any person, any _thing_. He couldn’t even wield his want offensively. There was no way he murdered his father, especially not with an unforgivable curse. 

“By all means, continue fraternizing with the enemy, but from now on, you report back to us. Any suspicious word, any hidden action, you make a note of it. You’re on our side. Do well, and your efforts will be rewarded.”

“And what if I say no? I simply refuse to spy on Crowley, he’s my friend-” 

“He’s an enemy,” Gabriel interrupted, “and if you say no, we won’t have anyone to keep an eye on him. We’ll have to do something else with him. Our side has some powerful people, Azira. Aurors, politicians, publicists. How well do you think your cowardly ‘friend’ would do wasting away in Azkaban? He wouldn’t be able to get in too much trouble, there. We wouldn’t have to worry about him at all.”

The librarian’s heart pounded in his ears. He struggled to breathe. 

“You wouldn’t… please, I’m begging you! He wouldn’t survive in there,” he scrambled desperately.

“Well then,” Gabriel cheered, clapping his hands together as he walked to the door and opened it. He gestured outward, turning his body towards Azira, “It sounds like we have a deal. We’ll be watching, Azira.” 

Upon entering the room, Azira had wielded his protectiveness over Crowley like a shield. It had been destroyed, melted, and forged into a sword pointed at the most beloved person in his life in just a few short minutes. Unable to find any other words, any solutions to the horrifying recruitment he’d just endured, he slowly walked out the open walkway. Just as he turned, mouth open, to say something, the door shut in his face. 

His blue eyes watered, staring emptily over the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom with its abandoned desks. He imagined his poor students, so young and unprepared, suffering through whatever was to come. He thought of the horrific events that had plagued this school twenty-so years earlier, and how they’d traumatized a generation. He thought of vulnerable, trauma-inflicted Crowley, who could hardly handle more heart-break in his life.

A war, he marveled, a witch hunt against all pure-bloods. That wasn’t good. 

* * *

A long, agonized groan echoed off the empty walls of the room as Crowley felt the morning sun shine on his face, waking him. At least- he assumed he was waking up. It felt more like he’d been murdered. Fatigue seeped deep into his bones, weighing them down. His head felt as if concrete had been poured inside. Upon trying to sit up, he noticed his limbs felt limp and heavy. Every motion took more effort than he could have imagined. 

Blearily, he examined the room, pleased to see he’d found his bed yesterday. At least Potter had left him his bed sheets, he noted saltily. He wrapped his hands around one leg, grunting in frustration as he had to drag it over the side of the bed. He did the same with the other. As he sat on the edge of his comforter, he stared, unfocused, at the stone of the wall where a painting he was quite fond of had been only the morning before. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the surface was moving.

“What the bloody hell happened yesterday?” he growled at himself, putting his head in his hands. 

Obviously, he remembered that god-awful meeting. Then, he remembered wanting to forget. He assumed he succeeded in that pursuit, as everything after was a bright, dizzy blur. Vague flashes of little blue whales, freezing temperatures, and, for some reason, Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice flickered across his mind. Who was there? Had he made a complete ass of himself? Azira’s face came to mind, as well Anathema’s token expression of unrelenting irritation. That couldn’t be great. Anthony picked through the little bits of memories and concepts, attempting to piece them together. His head shot upright when at last he recalled Azira’s beautiful, soft face, closer than he’d ever seen it, those lips wavering so closely to his, and that voice like honey whispering, _‘You go too fast for me Crowley’._

His spine shot into a straight position. What could that possibly mean? Crowley had been moving so slowly a snail would out-run him by miles. Over 25 years, he’d finally offered a single chaste kiss, and it had been rejected. Or perhaps that hadn’t been rejection at all. After all, if Azira didn’t want his love, if the idea was so deplorable to him, he would have said no. He would have said he wasn’t going anywhere. 

All the pain in Anthony’s body became the last thing on his mind as he rolled over his bed, grinning like a mad man and throwing his arms out as he yelled, “YES!” 

_‘You go too fast for me,’_ implied there was somewhere to go, and that Azira would consider going there. After decades of the angel not even registering who he was or that he existed followed by months of absolutely no response to his confessions and acts of service, this little statement felt like the clouds parting and heaven’s light shining down on Crowley for the first time in his existence. He felt it warm his skin and fill him up with ecstasy. He felt his heart swell so much he feared it might explode out of his chest. He felt a sensation he had been starved for his entire life. 

He felt hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a late update! Not my favorite chapter, but there's a bit more momentum after this one.   
The poem referenced is called My Guardian Angel by Robert William Service- please read it, as it fits Crowley's feelings BEAUTIFULLY *chef's kiss* 
> 
> Thank you guys for all the lovely comments, I had a rough go of things this last week and they motivated me to keep going!   
Next update is Sunday. 
> 
> Follow me @get_wrexed on twitter or at getwrexed on tumblr! Feel free to hit me up!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley have a "secret" meeting. After Azira discovers secrets from Crowley's past, he gets to know him like he never has before.

The uppermost, ancient stone steps climbing up and around the West tower were slick with ice, discouraging many who attempted to gain entry to the Owlery. The aviary occupants hooted softly, feathers fluffed up as they huddled together for warmth inside the glassless windows. A roaring fire, surrounded by three tiers of circular metal rings for the owls to perch on, sat at the center of the top of the tower. Several unexpecting creatures utilizing the space were spooked away by a rude hand flailing amongst them to make room for a tall, lanky figure that practically climbed into the pit of flames. Twit immediately recognized his master, flying eagerly to his shoulder and nuzzling into his neck. Typically, the pair did not get along; extreme cold posed as an exception. 

“Oh good!” expressed an all-too-familiar voice, “You’re early. That’s a pleasant surprise.”

“And w-wh-why did we have to meet at the bloody north pole?” 

The shorter of the two wizards could be said to have been bundled up, but his layers appeared as a pitiful excuse of keeping warm in contrast with taller’s ensemble of overkill. He wore his thick fur earmuffs, along with what appeared to be approximately 5 sweaters and a heavy-duty thick wool cloak. As much as Crowley fancied himself to be fashion-conscious, winter won over his particular taste in clothing every time. 

The redhead raised a hand to scratch Twit’s neck feathers, allowing the bird to twist himself up in his beloved red scarf and relish the warmth. After a prolonged moment of silence, Crowley turned to examine Azira’s uncharacteristic silence and immediately placed the anxiety creasing his face.

“What’s wrong?” 

Another moment of silence followed as the librarian nervously took in his surroundings, performing a short walk-about to peek behind any obstructions that could provide hiding spaces. 

“Azira Fell,” Crowley crooned in a naughty tone, “Are we having a secret meeting?” 

“A bit of discretion wouldn’t kill you, Dear Boy, surely,” Azira chastised, making quick work of casting a silencing charm around his companion and himself. 

“Right,” the Herbologist agreed. Before Azira could say another word, Anthony was performing a bizarre sequence of hand signals and ridiculous facial expressions. The act slowly slid into something that resembled more of a miming bit. 

“What are you doing?”

“Being discrete. Code, right?” 

“Crowley, be serious.”

“Ah. Huh,” Crowley remarked, “That bad? What is it?” 

Paranoid that his first survey of the surroundings was not sufficient, Azira took another quick look around them before leaning into his friend’s space in a manner that was anything but unwelcome, “There’s going to be a war. Another one.” 

Peripheral noises presented themselves in the way of only a crackling fire, whistling wind, and occasional hoots from the occupants of the tower. Crowley’s only reaction while in thought was a staunch shiver in response to a particularly icy gust of air. 

“Where’d you get that idea?” he finally responded. His tone was not committed to the severity of the situation quite yet, but no longer did it attain its typical unbothered and jesting qualities. 

“There’s a… oh, I’m really not entirely sure- a secret group of Muggle-borns and mixed-bloods who are forming some kind of organization under the mission statement of ‘putting pure-bloods back in their place’,” he worried while twisting his hands within one another. Anxious blue eyes scanned Crowley’s face. His jaw clenched, but Azira remained unaware if that was from the temperature or if perhaps he had triggered his anxiety with mentions of another war. For a moment, he debated if this was the best course of action. After all, Anthony was still so deeply plagued with memories of the last war. No, he decided. He had a right to know that he and his kind were about to suffer. 

“Is that it then?” Crowley finally groaned, “Angel, that’s just typical post-war _talk_. Everyone’s still angry, still simmering down. Next time you care to share that you’re indulging in paranoid conspiracy, write it in a note. It’s bloody cold. Let’s go inside. Got my stuff back- a bottle of Vinos de Pago, even, if you’d care to share.” 

A wave of frustration washed over Azira. As the nonchalant wizard attempted to drift past, he grabbed his arm, pulling him close in a way that stole Crowley’s breath from his lungs and left his chest aching.

“This isn’t a conspiracy, Crowley. Or it might be now, but it won’t be soon. They’ve asked me to _spy_ on you. They’re taking action. They say the remaining Death Eaters are forming their own coalition, to extinguish Muggle-born inclusion in the wizarding world- to climb back on top.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll play. Who is ‘they’?” Crowley resigned. Twit took the opportunity to hop over to Azira’s shoulder, preferring him better, and earned a dirty look from his master.

“I… well I don’t know. I just know that Gabriel and Michael are involved. I heard mention of the Minister of Magic, as well…”

A great, theatrical vocalization akin to a snort escaped the pure-blood, and he rolled his head over his shoulders before giving Azira the most incredulous stare he could manage, “Hermione Granger? Forming a coup to oppress ancient wizarding families? No way. Gabriel and your brother, I can buy.”

“Sibling,” Azira corrected gently. He worried at his lip, leaning in to Crowley, “Michael’s not someone to mess with, Crowley. This is serious. And they’ve singled you out. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want to spy on you. I don’t want to be part of this war.”

“There’s not going to be a w- www- _war_, Angel,” Crowley dismissed, voice dripping with disbelief as he flapped his hand at its wrist. A glance at his companion made his heart clench in his chest. It was that look of concern again, stronger than he’d ever been subjected to, but it was mixed with such fear, such alarm.

“Azira,” he continued, this time much more softly, but still obtaining the strong element of doubt, “It’s going to be alright. _I’m_ going to be alright. I- eh- iii- if Gabriel and Michael want to gossip over my ah- ac- activities at their slumber parties, let them. If they want you to pour them the hot tea of what fertilizer I’m using on my newest plants from India or which clubs I frequent to nab one night stands, then by all means pour it. They’ll lose interest in no time. You can’t start a war over nonexistent findings. I guarantee you, the vast majority of other children of Death Eaters are trying to do the same thing as me- live life, move on, and not be the despicable war-mongering shitlords our parents were.”

He watched fondly as the wrinkle of worry between Azira’s eyebrows grew slightly more defined, “You… want me to spy on you? To tell the truth about what you’re doing? I don’t understand why you would agree to that.”

“If it’ll make you feel better, I can’t really find the energy to care very much at all what they know about my day-to-day activities. I have nothing to hide.”

“That’s…,” Azira’s eyes softened, clouds slowly beginning to drift away as he looked at his companion with such fondness, “That’s very kind, Anthony.”

“Agghhhhh!” Crowley complained in response to the compliment, attempting to bury his face into his scarf so he might hide the redness spreading across it, “Let’s not get _carried away_, Angel.” 

The taller figure sauntered back towards the stairs, clinging to the railing to avoid slipping in the same manner he did on his way up (there had been no witnesses, and thus he would never admit it happened). Azira hurried to catch up, taking Twit from his shoulder and giving him a treat as he placed him back on the perch near the fire. The owl seemed pleased that the visit upgraded his position to one closer to warmth. 

“I don’t believe I’ll ever understand why you take such discomfort with being acknowledged as you are. You really are the kindest person I know.”

“_No_,” Crowley hissed over his shoulder, “I am not _kind_. ‘Course you’ll never understand. I’m an enigma, Angel.” 

Considering that they had only just discussed the mundane reality of Crowley’s daily activities, Azira found this claim very amusing and let out a small laugh. Still, it was true there was so much that the pure-blood would never share with his best friend. His were some of the only stories and histories that the librarian had accepted he might never have access to.

“Indeed,” he allowed, “you are a mystery.” 

* * *

“And then- oh dear,” Azira found himself interrupted by a loud scream, and from over his book, he spotted a small child flying through the air across the room.

“Right- uh,” an absolutely overwhelmed Healer began, rushing after the human projectile to scoop him up off another child’s bed, “I believe that might be a good place to stop story-time for today, Mr. Fell. Thank you so much, as always!” 

“Of course, Adora,” the wizard offered a warm smile, collecting his things from the children’s ward of St. Mungo’s. He’d been volunteering to read to children and elderly enduring long-term recovery for several years now. Typically he would come on Saturdays, and it seemed that perhaps sticking to schedule was best, as his electing to come Sunday instead had rendered the children into a mad frenzy of excitement. They weren’t quite able to settle, even as Azira persevered through nearly the entirety of the book. 

“Goodbye, little ones, don’t get into trouble, yes?” he offered them, attempting to appear stern but failing miserably. He couldn’t help but offer a warm smile as several of the children ran up to hug him or waved from their beds, taking care to give each of them an individual farewell. 

“It’s this way, yes? I do always get a bit turned around in here,” Azira admitted sheepishly.

Adora gave him a patient smile, shaking her head, “We’re actually just cleaning up after an accident that happened down that stairwell. If you don’t mind going all the way down the other way, then there’s a stairwell there as well.” 

He offered his thanks before departing down the hallway, passing several different wards as he did so. It was difficult not to find himself anxious over the new route. After all, the fourth floor always drudged up emotions of dread and sorrow in the pit of his stomach. Magic could manifest itself in such beautiful ways, but it could also corrupt and break and ruin the human mind and body so deplorably. Several people on this floor were only here for prolonged treatment. Many unfortunate others were confined here indefinitely after facing irreparable damage. 

Azira’s melancholy line of thought resulted in him getting aimlessly lost more than once, and each time he resigned himself to ask Healers in their eyesores of green robes for directions. One such occasion sent him through the psych ward. 

If the thoughts previously occupying his mind had hurt his heart, the ones that came next shattered it entirely. A few patients of the ward socialized at tables in a common area. Two men nearby seemed to be playing two entirely different card games with one another. Likewise, they each contributed to their own respective roles in conversation while discussing two different things entirely. A silent woman was perched on a rickety wooden chair near a smudged window that she stared blankly out of. None of the room’s inhabitants seemed present in this reality, Azira found himself very much hoping the ones they were experiencing instead were happier. 

As he started his way down the hall, greeting blank, empty looks with warm, encouraging smiles, he couldn’t help but think of Crowley. He wondered how many people here were suffering after being tortured with the Cruciatus Curse. An air of misery draped over these halls like a black cloth over a bird’s cage, muting any trace of life beneath it. This sensation drove Azira to believe in his colleague more than ever. It didn’t have to be like this. Anthony would change things. He truly believed that. 

“Can you believe that cheeky little bastard? Who does he think he’s talking to, anyway?” 

For a moment, Azira wondered if his own wires were getting crossed, as Crowley’s voice seemed to seep seamlessly into his perception of reality. 

“But just as I was about to bog him down with a month’s worth of detention, I remembered the nonsense we used to get up to. Little nightmares, us.” 

The voice was definitely getting louder, and Professor Fell experienced a great relief that he was not over-empathizing with the ward’s patients and going mad. Burning curiosity dominated his senses next. Azira took a few steps forward, heard the voice grow quieter, then took several steps back. After identifying the correct room that the invested tones were slipping out from, the blonde found the door ajar, and allowed himself a peek inside. Whatever would Anthony be doing here? It was the third Sunday of the month, wasn’t he supposed to be off partaking in his bi-monthly shenanigans with-

Azira had to stop himself from expressing aloud. Indeed, he’d been correct in identifying Crowley’s voice. The pureblood was awkwardly splayed out in one of the uncomfortable visitors chairs arranged next to the only hospital bed in the small room. The stylish velvet curtains- clearly personalized and not at all the institution’s default drab donnings- were drawn open to allow in the pathetic excuse for today’s rays of sunshine. Newspaper and magazine clippings of popular wizarding comedians from the ‘90s lined the walls alongside personal photos and posters of musical artists. A modest stand-up piano occupied the farthest side of the room. The person who dwelled here was sitting cross-legged on the bed- a dark haired woman, approximately the two men’s same age, with warm brown skin and an exhausted, distant expression. Her bright green eyes raised to meet Azira’s, but they were blurred, rendered empty by a stream of consciousness that simply wasn’t there. 

An instinct to run overcame the intruder, but his feet felt heavier than cinder blocks, effectively anchoring him in place. A sense of dread that can only be attained by witnessing something one is definitively not meant to filled his heart and made his stomach churn. He felt absolutely caught red-handed as the gaze from green eyes encouraged an amber pair to turn their attention to him as well. 

Crowley was holding the woman’s hand, a brush covered in a dark purple nail lacquer held in his free fingers. His expression upon taking in the new presence was absolutely undecipherable, the placement of his sunglasses obstructing Azira’s quest to find reassurance on his features. After what felt like an eternity of wishing to be smited from the surface of the earth, Azira was finally offered a subtle, but not unwelcoming or forced, smile from the friend he knew so well. 

“Valencia, you remember Azira Fell. What are you doing here?” his voice wasn’t unpleasant, but it did feature a sharp tone that betrayed an eager desire for answers. Azira felt as if had shown up, uninvited, at the gates guarding Crowley’s heart, and he had, entirely on accident, forced them open.

“I-,” the librarian began. A hundred realizations rushed his mind upon gaining entry. Heartbreak wasted no time in filling the vacancy anxiety had left. It was her- Valencia Heller, Crowley’s childhood best friend and partner-in-crime. Every time Crowley said he was going to visit her, he’d gone here. She was the heartbeat that had kept his research pumping for twenty years. And for twenty years, Crowley had mourned her in silence, alone, without his other friends having the slightest clue. Azira suddenly felt like a wretched friend. Perhaps the Herbologist had opted to suffer in solitude, but how much pain must have haunted him over this? What measures of agony had Azira, as a friend, simply overlooked, opting instead to embrace ignorance? 

“Angel? You alright?” Crowley asked, resting the hand holding the brush on his thigh as he waited for confirmation. Azira seemed frozen, opening and closing his mouth with the suggestion that he was about to say something. However, his blue eyes darted around in a distant, occupied manner that revealed his mind was far away.

“Ah, yes!” the wizard finally managed, shaken back to the present. He cleared his throat sheepishly, recognizing how strange the behavior he had been exhibiting was, “Yes- I’m sorry. I come here as often as I can to read to the children and elderly. Usually I come on Saturdays. I didn’t mean- I had to- That is- I’m sorry.”

Unconditioned to witness Azira in a state that rendered his typically impeccable speech so deplorable, Crowley raised an entertained eyebrow. He ignored the plethora of apologies, instead admiring the rare shade of pink flushed upon the face of the object of his affections. 

“Of course you do.” 

“Right. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just heard your voice and- well- curiosity got the better of me. It was lovely to see you again, Heller,” he acknowledged the witch despite knowing she was entirely unable to register him.

This seemed to pique some form of interest in Crowley, whose features softened as he shook his head and teased, “You often come sneaking into rooms and then running out right after, Angel? Take it from a couple of professional miscreants, running just makes you look more suspicious. Take a load off. Visiting hours are almost over anyways. You and I can get some lunch after.”

Unable to deny the temptation of lunch and uninterested in exhibiting any more rudeness than he already had, Azira fumbled with his book, setting it timidly on a nearby surface and pulling a rickety chair to the foot of the bed. Crowley seemed pleased, turning his attention back to painting. Azira settled down the best he could. His nerves did not. Eager to redeem himself, he spotted a stack of books teetering on the edge of the night stand.

“Oh- it looks like you two have been reading as well.” 

Crowley glanced up from Valencia’s nails to scan her expressionless face. Her thousand-yard stare had glided off in the direction of the wall. A few beats of silence passed. It appeared almost as if he was giving her the chance to answer Azira’s question. The librarian studied the dynamic carefully. The redhead didn’t seem to fuss over or coddle his childhood best friend. He was simply patient, the Hufflepuff trait Azira saw shine most brightly in him beside loyalty.

“Oi, Val. Remember what we read earlier?” 

Another long silence filled the stagnant air. Just as their visitor wondered if their waiting would find purchase, he heard her speak for the first time. 

“It… is a mistake to fancy…,” an airy voice escaped the withered witch’s pale lips and trailed off into nothingness. 

Azira looked carefully at Crowley, who was again focused on painting the nails he had so meticulously filed. Hoping he was not overstepping any bounds, he invited warmly, “What’s that, Dear Girl?”

“It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude,” she said, more clearly this time. 

“H. P. Lovecraft! ‘Cool Air’, if I’m not mistaken? Do you like Lovecraft?” 

Another quick glance traversed from Crowley to the dazed woman’s face as he capped the nail lacquer. 

“Loves him. Don’t you, you sadistic bitch? Eh- ev- every bloody time I come here we read him, and you get to forget all about it and go dancing off to dream-land at night. Not me, though. Noooo, I get to go try to sleep alone in a giant haunted castle, creepy fucking stories crawling through my head the whole time,” he teased. 

“I never assumed you’d be easily affected by horror,” Azira expressed in amusement.

“Pffft. You should see where I grew up,” Crowley mumbled, “Living Hell, there.”

Gradually becoming less intimidated by the strange new dynamic, Azira slid into a comfortable understanding of how to approach conversation in this setting. It was meant to be open and inclusive of Valencia, despite her lack of presence or lucidity. They could discuss other topics but always with the invitation of her contribution. Crowley had adapted a remarkably clever and considerate way of answering questions targeted at her without speaking on her behalf. He’d developed an even craftier method of rephrasing questions for her, but not demeaning or othering her in the process. As much as he appreciated how vulnerable Crowley was being by letting him see this, how special it was that he trusted him, Azira couldn’t help but wish everyone could see him like this. Then, no one would be able to continue indulging in willful ignorance; they’d have to finally see and acknowledge Anthony’s impeccable character. 

Some time passed, and they discussed all manner of things. Crowley regaled Azira with some of the wild stories of mischief from his and Valencia’s schooldays, often including her with a casual, “You remember that, V?” After one such invitation, a sign of conscious activity sparked across her eyes. 

She sat up on the bed, cocking her head to the side and speaking in a much stronger voice than earlier as her cat-like orbs scrutinized Crowley, “AJ?”

“Yeah?” her friend answered casually, stretching with a groan, his hip popping in the process, and propping his foot up invasively next to her hip on the bedding. 

“What the bloody hell happened to you? Why do you look so fucking old?”

“N- nnn- not _so_ fucking old,” Crowley mumbled indignantly, pouting slightly as he pushed his sunglasses up with his middle finger. He seemed to forget he was meant to supply an explanation.

“... _well?_” she pressed, splaying her hands out to her sides inquisitively. The brief moment of lucidity made Azira aware of a nearly suffocating presence of personality. He instantly understood why the two had been so close.

“Ah- yeah, remember that stupid aging potion Fred and George made? Spiked my pumpkin juice at breakfast. Got me good, I guess,” he lied, as naturally as breathing. Years of practice made it easy.

“Wankers,” Valencia laughed before realization dawned on her incredibly expressive features. She looked at him, brows raised, with an amazed little grin overtaking her plush lips. 

“What?” Crowley mused suspiciously, “What’s that look for? You plotting something, Heller? Come off it. Pick a different target. I won’t hesitate biting back.”

The astonishment she felt appeared to deepen, and her grin grew toothy, “Naw, nothin’. It’s just- that’s got to be the most I’ve ever heard you say without your stammer. What else was in that potion?” 

He looked a bit embarrassed at the remark, shrugging in admission and glancing off to the side. 

“Yeah. Used to be something awful. Guess we all have to outgrow some things,” he muttered, in part to acknowledge her musing and in part to bashfully explain her reaction to Azira. 

“What, overnight? Yeah, right. God, Snape was such an arse yesterday, making you read that out loud. Why the bloody hell did he become a teacher when he hates us kids so much? I can’t believe he still has a job. No- I can’t believe no one’s made him sorry yet! He should absolutely be our next target- ohhh I have so many good ideas, AJ. We could… we could… we…,” the enthusiasm and vigor she started her tangent with seemed to dissipate into the stale hospital air, and her eyes fogged over yet again. The sadness in Crowley’s face was fleeting, and almost indistinguishable, presenting itself as just a brief twitch of his features, but it was enough to break Azira’s heart. It must have been so difficult, he reflected, to have his best friend back, but with the mentality that it was twenty years earlier, and only in fleeting, unpredictable moments.

They returned to the pattern as it had been before. Crowley took the time to update Valencia on the happenings of his life since his last visit. 

“- and the ministry _finally_ returned all my things. ‘A few days’ my arse. I had to buy new clothes at Hogsmeade just to have something to wear. And they were _hideous. _Potter’s different now. So weird to see old classmates as adults. Like his kids way more than I ever liked him, though. Let’s see, what am I forgetting, Angel?”

“Perhaps your unsanctioned journey into narcotics meant for magical beasts thrice your size?” Azira’s bitterness was lost on Crowley.

“Oh yeahhhh!” he cheered with a laugh, “On top of the world, I was. Master of the Universe and Liberator of Frogs.”

A look from Azira was sharp enough for the wizard to quickly jump subjects, he could only test him so far with feigned ignorance.

“We had a staff meeting to discuss all the creepy nonsense going on. Decided to have a Yule Ball, again-”

“Oh, the Yule Ball! I’m so excited, Anthony,” Valencia came to life nearly immediately at the words, animatedly clapping her hands together. Again, Crowley had to mentally transport himself to 1994. His friend carried on with vigorous excitement, “It’s going to be so amazing. Only took three years of You-Know-Who’s nonsense and fearing death daily at school for them to finally dish out something _fun_ for us to do. Oh, by the way, Lee Jordan asked me yesterday. I know we were probably going to hang out with that lot at the Ball anyway, but it’s nice to finally have a date. Have you asked Fell yet?”

Crowley nearly hacked up a lung, earning a concerned look from his company before clearing his throat and promptly attempting a topic change. Azira wondered if he’d misheard Valencia, and he narrowed his eyes as he looked inquisitively between the two friends. 

“Did you know there’s a type of magical rowan called a Wiggentree, and if you touch its trunk it will protect you from Dark creature attacks? They should plant them around the grounds as a security measure, don’t you think?”

“No one cares about bloody plants, Crawly. Did you ask him or not?” 

“Wow, look at the time, yyy- y- you know, McGonagall assigned me a _ton_ of extra homework after our last little escapade, so I really should get to it,” he tried again, standing and flattening out the creases of his clothing with his palms. 

She stood as well, blocking him from the door. Heller was approximately twenty-five centimeters shorter than her friend. Years of hospitalization ensured any athleticism she once attained was long gone from her atrophied muscles. Her wand had long since been confiscated. Still, even from behind her, Azira was quite under the assumption that a full-grown dragon could be placed next to her and he would be unsure of which creature to be more afraid. 

“You want to try me, little man? You know I can have you in a headlock in two seconds flat.”

Crowley hesitated, looking nervously down at her. Perhaps he could take her, but not without suffering, and he’d certainly be kicked out for a month, at least. After weighing his options, he decided it was indeed better not to get into a scrap with a woman in a psych ward and resigned to sitting back down. She crossed her arms, a now foreboding presence lording over him.

“Valencia,” he pleaded quietly, anxiously glancing over to Azira for help and finding to his own absolute devastation that his friend was far too intrigued by the situation to help him at all, “If you love me, if you really do, please don’t say another word.”

“Ohhh, I do love you,” she hissed in a menacing voice, eyes glowing brighter than fire from a dragon’s breath, “and because I love you, I’m going to say _many _words, and you’re going to sit there and listen to them.”

Crowley’s face looked like it was competing with his hair to achieve the most astonishing shade of red. His black fingernails scraped over his own shoulders to grasp the hood of his robes. Very slowly, he began pulling it over his head and slinking down further into his chair, bracing himself as his fear of being exposed to Azira was about to be brutally realized.

“The last fourteen months, all you bloody talk about is Fell, your ‘Angel’. No matter the topic, you bring it back to him. ‘I need a new quill’ ‘Azira Fell just got a new quill, middle of the week, too, do you think someone gave it to him?’. ‘I prefer crepes over pancakes’ ‘You know Azira Fell loves crepes? Him and his friends go to that cafe in Hogsmeade every Saturday’. ‘I’m dreading this Muggle History lesson’ ‘I overheard Azira Fell talking about it and it actually sounds fascinating! He said it’s his favorite part to study, I bet it’ll be good’.”

Crowley was not sitting quite so much as he was sliding out of his seat and pouring onto the floor as if there were no bones in his entire body. The fabric of his hood now concealed his entire head and face. He was letting out a long, low groan that Azira only now realized was an incredibly drawn-out and bastardized variation of the word, “no.” Valencia granted her friend no mercy.

“And it’s not even just talk! Noooo, everything you do is linked to him! Let’s review, shall we? You’ve started reading Oscar Wilde, Christopher Marlowe, whatever other boring Muggle nonsense that you _absolutely can’t stand_ just so you don’t embarrass yourself on the off chance he ever picks out a student three years his junior to have tea and discuss the world’s most excruciating literature with. You put all this work into making sure his friends think you’re a hilarious delight even though you have absolutely no intention of using those connections at all, because maybe they’ll mention you to him. You didn’t sleep for a week because you heard he was struggling in Herbology and stayed up every bloody night extensively annotating a library book you had a _hunch _he’d check out just to help him.”

The hooded figure was now entirely on the floor, curled tightly into a ball as if the smaller he got, the more likely he was to disappear from Azira’s view and mind altogether. To say this flood of new information entertained the onlooker would be as much of an understatement as to say Crowley was merely ‘embarrassed’. Azira wondered at how he possibly could have forgotten Crowley when the other man had been so absolutely enamoured with him. He recalled that Herbology book. He remembered being absolutely appalled that anyone would so horribly deface a library book. Admittedly, the annotations were the only reason he’d gotten a decent grade in seventh year Herbology- the only subject he had ever struggled with. How clever must Anthony have been to be so well versed on content three years advanced past his own classes. How sweet must he have been to do all that work for Azira, not expecting the slightest bit of credit in return. 

Truly, as Crowley laid on the hospital floor wishing for Death to come for him, Azira was overwhelmed with adoration at the absolutely endearing discovery of his friend’s childhood crush.

“And after all that, he doesn’t even know who you are! So you have two options, here. You can continue shaping your life around him, be a bloody stalker, let him graduate without ever making an impression on him, struggle through life because you wasted your school years indulging in your silly little fanclub of one instead of studying, wait for death, and then maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll read your name in the obituaries of The Prophet. Oh! Then he’ll know who you are! Or, you can grow some _fucking cojones_ and ask him to the bloody Yule Ball! What’s it gonna be, Ñero?” 

A stark silence fell over the room. Valencia stood unwaveringly over her childhood friend, hands on her hips.

“_Killlll meeeeeeeeee_,” Crowley finally groaned, voice muffled as his fabric-covered face pressed against the floorboards. 

“Ay, no. No, no, no. I’m not going to kill you. But I’ll tell you what-” With a remarkable amount of strength for someone her size, she yanked the pathetic man up off the floor and back into the chair. In an equally impressive show of stubbornness, Crowley remained in the same position, curled into himself and hiding his face within the confines of his hood.

“I love you. I support you. You like Fell? Fine. I literally cannot begin to understand why- but fine. But you’re going to break your back pining over him and then decide that he’s out of your league without even trying? Oh no, Papi. I, for one, will not tolerate that shit at all. I’m kicking your ass out of the nest, baby bird. You’re asking him today. If one more day passes and you haven’t and you so much as mutter the words Azira fucking Fell? I’ll- Anthony.” 

In two swift motions executed so fast Azira nearly didn’t see her perform them at all, she yanked off the humiliated wizard’s hood and snatched his sunglasses off his face, “I will throw myself off the fucking Astronomy tower. I’ll do it. I don’t give a fuck. I’d do anything to get you to stop being such a goddamned pussy about this. So promise me.” 

Crowley’s hands guarded his face. He let out another long, agonized groan. The witch in front of him grabbed his wrists and lowered them, narrowing her eyes as she shoved her nose against his.

“Mírame a los ojos, pequeño cobarde!” she growled.

He complied, barely cracking his eyelids apart to brave eye contact. Her eyes bore into his with an intensity that Azira was sure could kill people all on its own. After a moment of comparing her to others he’d had the pleasure of meeting, he decided she was likely the most terrifying person he’d ever met in his life. She proved herself to be a very devoted best friend, however.

“Prometeme.”

“_Fine_. I promise. Can we please change the bloody subject now?” 

“Sure! What’re you gonna wear? I guess it depends how you feel the day of. You should plan out two outfits just to be prepared. Oh! We should coordinate! This is gonna be so fun-,” she started, the anger and intimidation that nearly set the room on fire a moment before disappearing in a snap and being replaced by absolute enthusiasm.

Crowley had to be relieved when conversation changed its course. Finally, he was permitted to _enjoy_ his best friend’s momentary ability to communicate instead of feeling the urge to strangle her into silence. Time passed amongst the trio in the tiny hospital room. Valencia geared into a less solid perception of time and awareness, but small conversations were still possible. Azira was placed back into the rotation of conversation, although the witch was unsure who he was. Over the last two decades, communicating with individuals she could not grasp or retain the identity of had become commonplace. At this point, as she talked with Crowley, his identity was lost to her as well. The three of them all managing to socialize together was a sweet, special moment that Anthony treasured more than he let on. It was something that transcended his expectations. It was fleeting, however, as soon, Heller returned to her unresponsive, unaware state. 

“Right,” her companion of decades said gently, taking her hand in his own and kissing her knuckles, “We’ll be off, then.”

They gathered their things and said their goodbyes, leaving Valencia to rest. Azira was grateful for the companionship, as Crowley’s guidance meant he was unable to continue wandering aimlessly around the fourth-floor in search of the exit. The two were quiet as they stepped out of the broken window of the dilapidated department store that served as a perception filter to Muggles. Finding his companion’s mind was somewhere far away, the blonde took it upon himself to transfigure their robes into more commonplace jackets. They walked in silence for a while, Azira simply following after his companion. They weren’t going anywhere in particular, but understanding kept him from interfering. Crowley hadn’t meant for anyone to find out about Heller. Of course this unexpected turn of events would affect him.

“Thanks, Angel,” Crowley finally said as they waited side-by-side at a crosswalk.

“Of course, Dearest,” Azira reassured, watching as the endearment caused his companion to visibly relax the slightest bit. After a moment, he realized he was unaware what he did to earn the gratitude, “Whatever for?”

They were a couple blocks further along by the time he earned an answer, “For not treating her like she’s invisible. For not talking as if she’s not in the room. They always do. Makes her drift away more and more over time, I think.”

A regular pattern formed of a long, comfortable silence between each question and answer.

“How often does she recognize you?” 

“Depends on the day, really. That was a more lucid interaction than we’ve had in ages. But it’s gotten worse over the years- the more we age. She recognized me every time she saw me in the beginning, now it’s more like… ten percent of the time she knows me- if that. The worst thing is, now that I'm older, sometimes she thinks I’m- … never mind.”

“Has she been in there the whole time?”

“No. twelve years. Azira?”

“Yes?” Azira answered instantly.

“If I wanted to talk about this, I would have told you about it.”

The harsh clang of metal gates closing around Crowley’s heart was nearly audible, the chains rattling noisily as they locked shut. Azira appreciated that they had been opened them to him at all. It had provided the precious opportunity to learn about Crowley’s life, to open doors that had been previously locked and look inside. He had gained valuable, beautiful perspective and come to appreciate his companion more than ever before. Most importantly, he’d gotten the chance to show Crowley that he was safe to open them again, if he was ever so inclined.

He did wish he could cheer him up- perhaps he could. An innocent grin took over Azira’s features as they entered a park.

“Well then, what should we talk about?” he pondered coyly, “Perhaps your evidently massive schoolboy crush on me?” 

“YOU-,” Crowley started, instantly bright red in the face. He snatched the fabric at the chest of Azira’s shirt, shoving a finger in his face as he backed him against the trunk of a tree and his voice dropping low as he hissed, “ssss_shut it_.”

“Why didn’t you ever ask me?” Azira asked curiously, absolutely unbothered by his friend’s attempt at physical intimidation. It was the equivalent of being threatened by a very cuddly bunny. 

The taller figure’s face shifted from embarrassed anger to a more dumbfounded expression, “What?” 

“To the Yule Ball?”

Crowley let him go and covered his own face, taking a deep breath, “Satanás ayúdame.”

He turned slowly on his heel, walking away at a pace Azira practically needed to jog to keep up with. 

“Well?”

“Diggory,” Crowley attempted passively, too flustered to brave looking at his friend.

“No,” Azira debunked the answer, “I remember very distinctly, Cedric and I were split up at the time. There was a very bothersome amount of gossip over it. He went with Cho Chang. Don’t lie.”

“You really want to know why I didn’t ask you to a dance _twenty-three _years ago?”

“Yes,” Azira confirmed matter-of-factly. 

Crowley sighed a great cloud into the icy air, slinking down onto a cold, damp bench. He seemed too overloaded mentally to even register the temperatures, for once. Azira sat cheerily next to him, enjoying the view of several people skating on the frozen lake of the park. A small smile graced his face and he rested his hands comfortably in his lap. He watched as a set of parents lifted their tiny daughter up off the ice between them, and she kicked and whooped in excitement. Crowley watched his companion from the corner of his eye. How awful- Azira’s smile made his heart beat just as furiously now as it did all those years ago, like it was going to burst out of chest and leave him to die. He spread his arms out over the bench to hide his shaking hands behind it. 

Azira being let in had started something. It had triggered a chain reaction of Crowley, against all fear and reason, _wanting_ to open himself to him, to let him reach inside and put the pieces back together, to be freed from the bowels of the horrid memories and traumas that had consumed him. After all, Azira was his guardian angel- if he couldn’t be trusted with his vulnerability, who could?

“I did.”

Azira was broken from his trance at Crowley’s low mumble. He leaned forward a bit to read his expression, but the object of his attention looked the other way in a botched attempt to appear stoic. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

The animagus heaved another frustrated sigh, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee. 

“I did ask you. Three weeks before the ball.” 

This served as perhaps the last thing Azira had expected to hear. He looked at Crowley in surprise, desperately searching his memory for the experience. He remembered, admittedly, several people asking him, but never the tall, gangly, notoriously mischievous Crawly. 

“And I… what? Publicly rejected you? Walked away? Didn’t hear you? I can’t imagine I would forget that.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, “It was a note.” 

“Ah. What did it say?” 

The pureblood looked at him in such an affronted manner that Azira wondered what he’d done to earn it. 

“What does it matter? Nothing worth responding to, apparently.” 

“Oh, come now, Crowley, are you really that embarrassed over something that happened so long ago?” 

“It said, ‘A.Z. Fell, W-www-will you go to the dance with me? A.J. Crawly’,” Crowley half-lied. 

“Ah, well, brevity is the soul of wit, I suppose,” Azira reflected thoughtfully, causing his companion to gape at him incredulously, “how do you know I read it?”

“I put it in your favorite book.”

The silence that followed was a great relief to the Herbologist, who needed time to sulk over a rejection he thought he’d gotten over roughly two decades prior. He bitterly watched a couple skate, hand in hand, laughing uproariously as they fell into a snowbank and began thrusting mounds of the white fluff at one another.

“Ask me again.”

Crowley was quite sure he’d misheard as his head snapped to face Azira. The expectant expression that greeted him ensured that no, he had not. He was rendered absolutely flabbergasted. 

He let out an airy laugh of disbelief, “You’re really still stuck on this? Don’t feel _sorry_ for me. That’s beneath you. I was prepared for rejection. You were the brilliant, beloved, popular Head Boy Azira Fell, and I was cursed, plant-loving, delinquent, stuttering Crawly.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you,” Azira said with a frown, unamused by Crowley’s attempt at self-depreciation, “I didn’t then, and I don’t now. But I do so deeply appreciate the cursed, plant-loving, delinquent, stuttering Crowley I know now, so I don’t think it’s fair for you to assume I wouldn’t then.”

This earned a distinct blush from his companion, who again turned to look away, body language remaining relaxed as he feigned indifference. 

“Ask me again,” the librarian insisted a second time. 

Crowley turned back to him, raising an amused brow, “Would you let it go, you absolute nutter?”

“You promised Heller.”

The pureblood’s jaw dropped, he looked practically impressed at Azira’s dedication and daring, “Are you really playing _my_ sick-best-friend-slash-adopted-sister card _against_ me?”

“I am,” Azira said smugly, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

Crowley laughed sharply, shaking his head in amazement. How could he not be so in love with this man when he went around so unapologetically and brazenly being Azira Fell? He rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh, submitting to the pressure and figuring his friend had certainly earned it with that cunning check-mate, “Right then. Azira. Go to the dance with me?” 

“Properly,” Azira insisted.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley made a show of putting his finger behind his ear, leaning towards Azira, “what?”

“Ask me properly,” his companion shamelessly repeated, wearing an expression so unwavering and smug it made the taller wizard want to kiss him absolutely silly. Crowley pivoted his jaw, laughing at the utter audacity. 

Anthony made a dramatic display of standing up, fixing his jacket, taking two long strides to stand in front of Azira, kneeling down, clasping his hands together, and, with an investment to be as overly theatrical as possible, loudly pleaded, “Azira Fell! Won’t you please accompany me to the Yule Ball?” 

This gained the attention of several onlookers. However, his attempt to embarrass his friend was absolutely thwarted as the wizard gave him a positively blinding smile, and he could have floated away into the inviting clear blue sky of Azira’s eyes. Crowley was left, heart pounding, cheeks flushing, dumbfounded, on one-knee in front of his angel as his proposition was greeted with an entirely genuine and enthusiastic, “Oh, Crowley, I would absolutely love to!” 

The joke certainly hadn’t landed, and Anthony was left finding he had absolutely missed some nuance of the situation. It wasn’t brought up again, and he didn’t quite understand why the odd request had been made to begin with. They continued, business as usual, for the rest of the day. A cozy little hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant served satisfactory for lunch. Crowley gave his dessert to Azira. They disapparated from the city, finding themselves side-by-side in Hogsmeade. The walk back to Hogwarts was slow, but the pure-blood was so focused on the way the back of their hands brushed together that it felt unfairly fast. 

“Tea?” Crowley offered as they neared his office.

“I don’t think so. I really should get back to the library,” Azira politely declined. His companion curbed his disappointment, not wishing to appear as needy as he was. 

“Hello, Professor Crowley! You look very sharp today!” Blishwick chirped as she passed by, appearing absolutely ecstatic to see him. She was accompanied by Fawley, who drifted in a separate direction to avoid the upcoming structure marking their path. The young Hufflepuff herself was so enamoured while gazing after her professor that she failed to change course.

“Ciao, Blishwick. You’re about to eat it.” 

“Huh? AGH!” the unsuspecting girl exclaimed as she marched directly into the side of the greenhouse. Fawley attempted to come back to collect his friend, but was occupied falling over himself in laughter.

“Alright?” Crowley called out, slowing his pace.

“Y-Yes! I’m fine! Thank you!” Blishwick waved him away while hiding her face in the other hand, utterly devastated by the embarrassment. 

“Right. Be more careful. I don’t know what I’d do without you prefects.”

He righted his robes, giving Azira a toothy grin, “Look so good I’m a safety hazard.”

His friend laughed as they gradually began to split paths, him towards the library and Crowley towards his office, “It would seem like it.”

“Gonna get asked to the Ball, just you wait,” Crowley jested.

“Well,” Azira smiled warmly over his shoulder as they parted ways, “You’ll just have to tell them you already have a date.” 

The pureblood stood alone in the snow, an absolutely dumbfounded look upon his face as he clutched his keys weakly in his hand. A date?

_Azira Fell is my date. To the Yule Ball. Azira Fell,_ he thought, again and again. 

Crowley was frozen in place until he watched the figure retreat into the castle. He turned towards his door, mind reeling as he unlocked it, walked inside, and habitually removed his outerwear. He idled in the middle of the floor, hands cupped around his nose and mouth, and stared into the empty fireplace for several moments. Trying to make sense of it all, he looked around the room, catching his reflection in the mirror over the sofa.

“Azira Fell,” he said out loud, taking off his glasses to look himself in the eye, “You’re going to the Yule Ball with Azira Fell.” 

He could hardly believe it. A surge of pure joy charged his heart, and he began leaping around the room, aggressively pumping his fists as he did so, “_YES! Yeah! Fuck yeah! Yes!_”

For a moment, he felt like it was 1994- in the midst of the Triwizard Tournament. The Yule Ball was coming up soon. His crush had said yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! <3 I'm gonna be writing more in November, hopefully I'll be able to keep up with weekly updates. Update next Sunday! 
> 
> Follow me @Get_Wrexed on Twitter or at GetWrexed on tumblr! Feel free to HMU~


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The occupants of Hogwarts couldn't be more excited as the end of the term rolls around, bringing the Yule Ball with it. No one enjoys their company at the dance quite as much as Azira and Crowley. An unexpected guest crashes the party.

An atmosphere of exhilaration spread through Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry like a wildfire on the twentieth of December. Those attending the ball were eager to put the last schoolwork of the term behind them and indulge in the rare social affair. Students too young to attend elated in their impending return home for the holidays just two days later. The Professors were not absent from the end-of-semester joys as they applied the finishing touches on grading and correcting their class’s last assignments. 

Azira was in particularly high spirits this evening, empathetic to the contagious energy of the students. It made him recall a time that he himself was losing sleep in anticipation of the beautiful and elaborate holiday gala that was yet to come. Currently, he was navigating the castle halls to Crowley’s office. The redhead had been absent from all three mealtimes, and despite notoriously and miraculously not requiring food to survive, Azira was concerned about how he was handling his responsibilities for the upcoming ball. 

The blonde entirely forgot to knock on the door, far too familiar with the cozy little room, and swung the door open to find the fiery Herbologist (a witch, today) mid-bite into a dinner roll. The pure-blood made eye contact, un-sinking her teeth from the bread with visible discomfort and dropping it with a clatter onto a plate. She pushed the dish to the other end of the desk.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were eating- or rather… I didn’t know you… ate?” 

“Of course I _ eat _, Angel. I just don’t do it in front of people,” she explained, shifting in her seat. Her face flushed in an odd and misplaced embarrassment.

Azira was bemused, mentally cataloging how long Crowley must have been doing this- eating in secret, that was. They’d been to countless restaurants, attended mealtimes together every day for over a year, and yet he couldn’t recall a single occasion on which his friend ate more than a single bite of food in his company. A bit of guilt for his ignorance nipped at him like Doxies. 

“I could come back?”

“N- nnn- eh, no, that’s alright. I’m done, anyways. Finished grading papers for the term! And the first chapter of my book. Now just… ack, 10 more to go. Blast it all.” 

“Chin up, Dear Girl! You’re doing marvelously.” 

“I suppose,” Crowley mumbled, not encouraged as she resumed scribbling on some parchment with a black-feathered quill. 

Azira grinned, taking a turn about the plants lining the windowsill, “Fern, Casper, Harvey, Jeremy. You’re all looking quite well.” 

He muffled his laugh upon turning to the witch’s shocked face, taking the liberty to explain, “You’ve introduced us.” 

“Perfect,” Crowley noted with dread, ears notably pink as she pressed her nose to her work and hoped she could disappear into it if she got close enough. The last bloody thing she needed was to share her embarrassing litany of sexual exploits with her crush. She prayed to Hell that the introduction hadn’t come along with explanations. Azira was merciful enough not to reveal to her that it absolutely had. 

The blonde allowed her to finish her narrative thoughts, opting to occupy himself with a scan about the room. Most items were moved or rearranged after their recollection from the Ministry. Some pictures that had not previously been presented were now on the mantle over the fireplace. A photo of Crowley smiling and bantering with a blue-eyed, dark-haired man caught Azira’s attention. The two of them were holding the same variety of plant, and they appeared quite proud of the fauna. 

“Who’s this?” he asked curiously, carefully removing the frame from the mantle and holding it up for his friend to see.

“Ah- that’s Neville Longbottom,” Crowley mused, barely sparing a glance up from her parchment. 

“Really?” Azira asked in a nonplussed tone, “My goodness. He looks entirely different from when I last saw him his fourth year. I didn’t know you two were friends.” 

“Oh yes, really grew into himself the later years of school. Herbology nerds, the two of us. Really brought us together. Were colleagues for several years before I started on at Hogwarts. That photo was taken at the Edinburgh Herbology Conference; we’d managed to create a new Mimbulus mimbletonia hybrid. Looking back, it’s silly that we were so proud of such a small feat.” 

“I’m sure it wasn’t silly at all. Every career has its beginnings,” Azira reassured, though he wasn’t precisely sure of the feat’s notability at all. It felt safe to assume that Crowley was trivializing his own impressive abilities, as he so often did.

A comfortable silence fell upon the room as the blonde continued perusing the office’s decor. He eventually circled back to Crowley’s desk, and froze at what he found there. Without uttering a word, he reached out his fingers to pluck up a frame housing the picture of himself at 5-years-old in that ridiculous pumpkin costume, held it up to the office occupant, and squinted at her incredulously. Upon crossing her eyes to observe the photo, held only a few inches in front of her long nose, Crowley responded with a mischievous grin.

“Swiped that when we were at the bookshop. Couldn’t help myself. It’s too cute.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Azira complained, setting the photo back down, “I want one of you if you’re going to keep it!” 

“I was a horrendously miserable child, and it would likely only serve to make you sad, but alright. I’m sure Thelpie can fish something up.”

“Thelpie?” the Muggle-born asked, voice laced with curiosity. He tilted his head the slightest bit upon hearing the new name and attempted to place it.

“Yes, Thelpie,” Crowley repeated. A long, silent beat passed before she paused her writing to examine the confusion on Azira’s face, “Oh. The Help.” 

“The Help?” Azira countered, eyes widening at the audacity of Crowley to call anyone such a thing. His slacked jaw contributed to the affronted expression.

As if on cue, a jingle of ringing bells resonated throughout the small office. From the over the desk, a large pair of watery green eyes and bat-like, floppy ears could be seen. Azira was surprised at the sudden appearance of a House-elf. His friend, in contrast, was remarkably unperturbed by the presence and couldn’t be bothered to look up from her work. Immediately, the gigantic pair of green eyes directed their attention to the plate resting on the desk, then sternly turned on the witch’s face.

“Master Anthonia hasn’t finished her food! Master Anthonia is going to wither away if she goes on like this! The Help won’t tolerate it!” 

Azira couldn’t remember a single mention of Crowley having any kind of relationship with a House-elf. He had even less of an inkling why on earth she would be serving the witch in such a direct manner when the workers of Hogwarts went to such great measures to remain discreet. In part of processing this new discovery, he marveled at the social dynamic he was witnessing. Never before had he observed one of the tiny, subservient creatures attempting to chastise a human.

“Thelpie, quit fussing. I’m fine. I couldn’t eat anything else. Honestly,” Crowley muttered with the embarrassment of a grown child being scolded by their parents. The Muggle-born in their company couldn’t help but be amused as he observed his friend’s sheepish expression, and he betrayed himself with an innocent, amazed little laugh. The tiny creature’s glance turned to the wizard, and her ears perked up, expression immediately adopting a more amicable nature.

“Oh dear! Master Anthonia has company! The Help didn’t realize. The Help is very happy to meet a friend of Master Anthonia. She has heard wonderful things about Mr. Fell!”

The tiny female house elf made her way around the desk, curtseying deeply to Azira, who felt quite uncomfortable with the display. She called the pure-blood ‘Master’, and the librarian found himself appalled that Crowley would forgo mentioning the fact that she owned a living creature. The servant gave a flourish of her frail hand, righting her master’s messy desk, and ignored the witch’s protests that her system of organization had been perfectly fine. Crowley pouted, flailing about to snatch her things and restore them to their former chaotic glory. The Help seemed a tad smug as the efforts were halted half-way through, accompanied by a defeated, “Oh. Well actually when you put it there…”

“Ah, yes! It’s quite nice to meet you as well… er…,” Azira trailed off, disconcerted with the idea of calling any sentient creature ‘The Help’. 

“You can call her Thelpie,” Crowley offered, “You don’t mind, do you?” 

“Certainly not! Mr. Fell may call The Help whatever he likes,” she reassured, occupied with snapping her fingers to make the half-eaten meal and its accompanied dishware disappear. The wizard felt his stomach churn as he noticed the deep brand of a snake on the back of Thelpie’s frail hand, “Master Anthonia has called her ‘Thelpie’ since she was a tiny little tot.” 

“You serve the Crawly family?” Azira inquired to confirm his suspicions, catching up on the identity of the most self-assured house elf he’d ever met. 

“Oh, yes! The Help has served the Crawly family for over a hundred years!” she said, puffing her chest forward with pride beneath the dishrags that enrobed her tiny, thin frame, “Is there anything else Master Anthonia needs? The Help must be getting on with her other duties, and she doesn’t wish to intrude.”

“Azira was asking for a childhood picture of me. Do you think you could manage to scrounge one up for him?” Crowley asked lazily, resting her cheek on a fist and flicking the black feather of her quill about with her free hand. 

“Oh, The Help would be delighted to revisit the manor and search for photos! Master Anthonia was such a precious baby, after all. Such a sweet, imaginative little child, always coming up with the most fantastical games, however mischievous they were. She used to fashion extravagant little heists into the pantry to steal cookies. But The Help knew her tricks too well-,” the House-elf reminisced wistfully. 

“Thank you, Thelpie,” the witch cut the exposure of her childhood nature short with a tinge of embarrassment, her ears now a bright pink. Azira found himself eager to talk to Thelpie again, interested in being regaled, uninterrupted, with tales of Crowley’s childhood exploits. They sounded unyieldingly adorable.

“Of course. If Master Anthonia needs anything else, she shan’t hesitate to call! The Help has been honored to meet Mr. Fell,” Thelpie chirped with cheer, curtseying low to the two humans before disappearing with a snap of her fingers.

“The Help?” Azira asked yet again, his voice laced with an incredulous tone.

“Well _ I _ didn’t name her,” Crowley defended herself.

“Why haven’t you let her go?” 

Very few things reminded Azira of the stark contrast between their upbringings, but Crowley’s dubious glance certainly did. The expression was followed by a grimace. She pretended to busy herself in the manner she always did when forced to discuss the sordid details of her family life. However much ground Azira made inching into her guarded heart, massive stretches of guarded histories seemed to tack onto the journey at each discovery. The closer he came, the more tenuous the terrain.

“I haven’t inherited anything, including Thelpie. I likely won’t, considering I was disowned. But my mother is incapacitated and I’m the only other living Crawly, so she’s in- eh, en- in- inclined to serve me in the meantime. Didn’t know what to do with her and didn’t have claim to free her, so I asked her to work here. But even if I was able to, she’d probably be heartbroken if I tried to dismiss her. I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to paying her, though. She raised me, you know. She’s quite attached.” 

“What do you mean she raised you?”

“Oh, you know. Kept me busy. Away from my parents. Played with me. Fed me. Taught me everything I needed to know. No one else was going to do it. Never was able to discipline me, though. I’m her soft spot.”

A pang of sympathy struck Azira’s heart. It must have presented itself on his face as well, because Crowley shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, continuing to avoid eye contact. He’d never heard her say anything remotely positive about her childhood, and suddenly he felt a deep appreciation for the presence of the House-elf in her life. 

“You’re quite attached to her too, then?” 

“Of course. I’m very fond of her,” Crowley mumbled.

Azira reflected on this, deciding that the dynamic was, in reality, very sweet. As he processed the new intel, he realized that while he knew his friend’s mother was alive, he was unaware that she was unwell, “If I may ask, what did you mean about your mother being incapacitated?”

Crowley remained silent and adjusted her glasses- reinforcing her emotional guard. The token action served as an unmistakable signal that Azira was not to tread any further. The Muggle-born heeded the body language, aware of its meaning. He was committed to work for a reality in which Anthonia only shared when she felt safe and comfortable, and this approach yielded neither luxury. Azira realized he could move too quickly, as well- in his own way. Out of an abundance of respect for his friend’s fragile, guarded heart, he exhibited mercy in the fashion of a change in topic, “How are the decorations coming along?”

“Oh! Perfect. Thanks for reminding me; I wanted to show you something!” she rushed out, embracing the turn in conversation with great enthusiasm. Promptly standing up from her desk and adjusting her tight grey knit sweater dress, she made her way to the coat stand. Her robes were pulled on over her clothing and a Hufflepuff scarf thrown about her neck with a flourish.

“Outside?”

“In the greenhouses.”

Azira bundled up as well and obediently followed, stifling a fond laugh at the way his friend tiptoed at a sprint through the snow in her knee-high black boots. The journey to their destination was remarkably quick with the greenhouses placed only a short distance from the Herbology professor’s office. Crowley let out a sigh of relief as they entered the warm enclosure of Greenhouse Seven. As far as the eye could see were flower buds of varying size.

“Oh dear, they haven’t bloomed in time?” Azira asked in concern, wringing his hands about one another. After offering to organize the Yule Ball, he’d become quite busy. His knowledge that Crowley was often eager to please and his trust that she’d keep her word had resulted in a failure to micromanage her, or to check up on progress at all. The librarian settled on the conclusion that this must have been the result of an unfortunate timing issue.

“So little faith in me, Angel,” Crowley chided, sauntering over to the supply closet and pulling out two burlap sacks, “Come ‘ere.”

The librarian complied, an anxious grimace on his face, and staggered a bit under the unexpected weight of the bag that was shoved into his arms.

“Just sprinkle a bit over this row, I’ll get the other side.”

“Oh, I really don’t know Crowley… I have quite the black thumb. I’d hate to ruin your hard work.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Azira. It’s good for you to get your nose out of a book now and then, you know. Breathe in some fresh air. You won’t kill them. They won’t kill you. A five-year-old could do this. Watch.”

She sunk her hand into the sand-like substance within her own sack, liberally allowing the grains to strain through her fingers over a cluster of the adolescent plants. When finished, she upturned her palm, fingers splayed, as if to emphasize the ease of the act.

“I suppose I can manage…,” Azira hesitated.

“Goody,” Crowley rolled her amber eyes in an obvious enough manner that the action was perceptible even past the smoked glass.

She hummed ‘Killer Queen’ under her breath after setting her companion to work. The two idled around one another, navigating their way through the simple task. Azira tutted under his breath as he seemed to add either far too much or not enough of the powder atop the plants and hoped Crowley wouldn’t be too aggrieved with him. Well, it had been her idea, he supposed. He spared a glance over her way, and his dedicated focus to the chore changed course entirely.

He’d known Crowley- at least, _ really _ known her- near fifteen months now, and he liked to think he knew her quite well. He knew how easily flustered she was, how she abused and belittled her own character, how afraid she was to lower her guard, and how beneath her noncommittal facade, she cared so deeply about everything that occurred around her. But now, in this moment, she appeared so at peace. This was second nature to her- a safe, familiar, and happy ritual. The tranquility it brought her permeated the entire atmosphere, and the wizard in her company couldn’t help but feel it was a contagious blessing. Perhaps Azira was a safety hazard to the inhabitants of the greenhouses, but he made a silent decision in that moment to frequent the place much more often, if only for the privilege of seeing Anthonia here, like this.

“Right,” Crowley set down the heavy bag, clapping her hands together in opposite directions to dust off any loose residue, “Oh- Angel, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Azira realized he’d been staring and, while doing so, had been allowing a heavy stream of the powder to sink through his fingers onto a single unfortunate botanical victim.

“Oh! So sorry! I don’t know where my mind went,” he lied.

Crowley couldn’t bring herself to be angry when her angel awarded her that sheepish, apologetic smile. She sighed, shaking her head.

“It’s alright, we won’t use that one, we can put it up in your office instead.”

“What’s the nature of this powder, anyway?” Azira finally asked as he relieved himself of the heavy sack.

“You’ll see,” Crowley hummed, offering him a grin of childish enthusiasm. The wizard didn’t question his colleague as she took his hands, guiding him to the front of the architectural structure, “Now, stand here. I wanted you to see this.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Would I cause trouble?” the witch crooned with a devilish inflection.

“I don’t have a trace of doubt.”

“Oh, shut it. You worry too bloody much.”

Azira allowed the hypocrisy of the statement to slide, observing with curiosity and mild concern as his friend walked to the other side of the room, upturned a wooden crate with her foot, kicked it in front of her workbench, and climbed on top of it.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be, Dearest.”

A tinge of pink hue blessed Crowley’s face alongside a bashful little expression at the term of endearment. Azira found himself motivated to use the term more if it would always get such an adorable reaction. The Herbologist cleared her throat, pushed up the tight knit sleeves of her dress, and drew her wand from her robes.

“_ Hervibicus _.”

In a moment that was fleeting but beautiful enough for a lifetime, each bud of every flower burst open to boast iridescent silver blossoms. Incoming rays of sunshine danced unapologetically off them, casting a variety of blue, glimmering light throughout the greenhouse. Specks of shimmering pollen and soft petals shot into the air in response to the sudden blooming, lazily drifting downwards and swirling about the figure at the end of the room. Crowley pushed her glasses onto her forehead, an unyielding smile on her face as she gazed around at the fruits of her own labor. However brightly the flowers sparkled, they couldn’t hold a candle to the blinding shine of Crowley’s eyes. After all, Azira always had preferred gold over silver. The imagery of the lovely garden witch amongst her beautiful creations etched itself on his heart, which skipped an extra few beats just to ensure every detail was captured to perfection.

“So?” Anthonia began, enamored expression unwavering as it turned from her painstakingly prepared plants to the object of her deepest affections, “What do you think?”

The wizard fumbled for an answer, finding his speech had been lost to the flurry of flowers. Not until his hand rested over his heart, encouraging it to behave, did it start back up

“Remarkable, brilliant, beautiful- and so much more,” he finally settled on, though it served to be a shameful understatement. The comment was hardly directed towards the fauna, but Azira assumed it could safely be applied to them, as well, “You were right. I should have had more faith in you.”

“A bit louder, Angel, couldn’t hear you from up here,” Crowley grinned, making a show of leaning in and cupping her hand behind an ear. She gazed smarmily at the ceiling as she waited.

Azira resigned himself to giving his friend the victory, laughing and shaking his head before awarding Crowley the reiteration, “When have you ever let me down? I should have had more faith in you.”

The pure-blood crossed her arms smugly, feeling quite pleased with herself, “And don’t forget it. I’d fancy that one on record.”

“Careful with that big head,” Azira teased, “You’re bound to crush all your hard work.”

“Oh! Wh- whhh- what’s that? Eager to eat more crow, Azira?” his friend combated with a playful vigor, “Just you wait until tomorrow.”

* * *

Crowley was not surprised in the slightest with the gentle control and calm Azira maintained while managing the ball’s preparations. He’d seen him handle situations of greater intensity without a trace of anxiety. With such a tight timeline between the end of lunch and 8 PM, the transformation of the Great Hall was quite the undertaking. Marvelous efforts from the faculty proved well worth the investment. 

The flowers Crowley had grown were arranged among white poinsettias and blue baby’s breath. The glow from the floating candles and moon above shifted off the silver blossoms, reflecting dancing blue lights onto the floors and walls. A beautiful night sky spanned the enchanted ceiling tonight, modest clouds passing over the milky galaxy and blessing the hall below with spiraling, fluffy snowflakes. The image was not accompanied by cold, as the surrounding fireplaces hosted roaring fires of toasty blue flames. A gigantic Christmas tree was situated at the end of the hall, donning large blue glass ornaments and meticulously placed silver tinsel. Sheer silver curtains cascaded over the tall arched windows, fluttering in a gentle bewitched breeze. They had not yet been drawn, as the Herbology professor had forbade anyone from entering or peering into the garden until the night officially began. 

The decked hall had remained vacant for a time as the attendants and chaperones changed into their finest formal wear. Anathema was one of the first to volunteer as a supervisor, which seemed proper considering it was her idea that had been responsible for the event’s occurrence. She arrived early to find Azira obsessively shifting the decor- this a bit higher, or that a touch to the left. While her breath had been stolen away by the transformation, she was quite bitter that Azira had managed it without a trace of distress, as she now owed Anthony five sickles. She should have known that however clear her Sight, he’d always best her when it came to predictions of the librarian’s behavior. 

“It looks amazing Azira- and so do you,” she reassured while sneaking up from behind, “Didn’t think it was possible for you to forgo a single touch of tartan, though. Thought you counted on it for survival.”

The two were alone in the hall, the first faculty to arrive for their duties. Never one to entertain mundane, modern clothing, Azira was dressed in remarkable vintage light blue and white dress robes. They must have been decades old, but they appeared brand new. The ensemble was adorned with ruffles that would appear far too much for any other man, but suited the old-fashioned wizard with impeccable refinement. Somehow, in the clothing that was the height of fashion an entire century prior, Azira looked sleek, chic, _ handsome _. 

As he turned her attention to her, he made notice of two things: she looked beautiful, and as obviously as she wore the strapless, form-fitting green gown, she also wore a remarkable discomfort upon her face. She tugged at the long silver gloves encasing her arms. Her dark hair was tidied up in a lovely style above her head, and around her neck was a silver statement necklace adorned with emeralds. The dress had a sweetheart neckline in front, and plunged low in the back, revealing a great expanse of skin that she was entirely unaccustomed to featuring.

“Courtesy of Crowley,” she explained while subjected to appraisal by her friend’s kind blue eyes, “Should have known he’d choose something that didn’t suit me. That wily old serpent can just be so damned persuasive.”

“I couldn’t possibly disagree more. He must have known what he was doing, as you look absolutely stunning, my dear.”

Anathema’s dark cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she responded with a noncommittal shrug and a modest, “Thanks.”

They paced the hall together, ensuring for a third time that everything was in order as the rest of the staff trickled in. After seeing to it that all designated tasks had been fulfilled, they matched strides and floated towards the grand staircase in anticipation of the students’ arrival. 

“Are all your Gryffindors prepared to dance to their heart’s content?” Azira asked with a dreamy look in his eyes as he reminisced about his own experience at the Yule Ball. 

“As prepared as they could be. Crowley and I joined forces, knocked out a lesson for both our houses.”

“Crowley? Taught dance? Heavens, the entire generation is going to grow up a drastic dancing disaster. I can’t wait to witness a horde of students performing the ‘sheela shuffle’ to Shostakovich,” he expressed, eyebrows raised high and unable to contain a smile as his friend joined him in a long and hearty session of laughter.

“‘Catching the Snitch’ to Shubert’,” she squeeked through manic giggles. 

“‘Brewing the potion’ to Beethoven!” 

The two grasped onto one another for support as they rode out their hysterics, earning a disapproving glare from some of the other faculty at Anathema’s abrupt snort. They reduced to snickers, catching their breaths as they wiped away tears. 

“But honestly, you’d be surprised,” Anathema finally managed, “As much of a horrendous free-stylist he is, he has a proficient grasp on ballroom dancing.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Dear Girl,” Azira countered with an amicable smile, “Will Newton be joining us tonight?”

The dark eyes that scanned him bore an inquisitive element as her face struggled betwixt a glower and a polite smile, “Why would Newt be here? Don’t think I could trick him into thinking all this is a No-Maj affair.” 

Azira’s expression fell vacant, his eyelashes fluttering at her. Finally, he cocked his head, unable to contain his curiosity, “You mean you still haven’t told him? Surely, you’ve decided you like him by now.” 

“I do! Like him, I mean. It’s just that I’ve never dated a No-maj before. I know the witchfinding business is all nonsense, but I don’t want him to be afraid of me. I don’t want to spoil things. I don’t even know if this will last. It all just feels like so much pressure.” 

“He seems like a nice chap, my dear. He’ll be surprised, but I can’t imagine he’d ever be afraid of you. It doesn’t really change things. Not really. Muggle or Wizard, we’re all human in the end.”

The witch remained silent, mulling over the words. Uneasy about the topic, still, and unsure how to respond, she opted for a change in subject, “Speaking of dates, where’s yours? He was supposed to be here nearly a half-hour ago.” 

“Oh, you know Crowley. Always fashionably late.”

“Always embraces the chance to be a spectacle, too. He’s probably still looking in the mirror, fussing over whatever entirely inappropriate ensem-”

Anathema cut herself short, but her lips remained ajar, jaw gradually sinking lower as her gaze fixed past her friend, upwards. Her cheeks flushed a burning red like Azira’d never witnessed before, and she rambled a nonsensical string of syllables as her sentence trailed into nonexistence. Azira observed her with an expectant glance, tensing the corner of his lips and furrowing his brows before following her line of sight. Instantly, his own features adopted the same stunned expression.

Indeed, Crowley did embrace the opportunity to become a spectacle. However his appearance could be described, ‘inappropriate’ was the last term to be justified. The fiery red locks were cropped short and loosely pushed backwards in stunning depiction of elegance. His attire was a dashing hybrid of modern and vintage. A sleek black floral brocade jacket was meticulously arranged over a fitted, double breasted silk waistcoat. The fine black cravat and pocket square complementing the ensemble featured tasteful red detail work. Fastened over it all was a deep red asymmetrical cape, secured over one shoulder with an antique silver clasp. Crowley’s golden eyes were unimpeded tonight, betraying the fact that he was gazing at Azira in equal measure of awe. He descended the staircase, escorting Professor Sinistra on his arm. 

Her sentiment of appreciation went unnoticed as she floated away. Anthony was flooded with powerful notions of sickening love and irrevocable adoration that drowned out any particle of sense or reason. While his mind was unable to function, his feet seemed to manage just fine, as he found himself standing directly in front of Azira. This gave him the advantage, as Azira was rendered incapable of coaxing either his mind or his body into functioning. His blue eyes remained locked on the wizard before him. 

“Crowley,” he gasped, refusing his lungs the oxygen they yearned for from the moment spotted his companion, “You look… absolutely-” 

“Ethereal,” Crowley blurted out, clearing his throat. He attempted to break his gaze away as his hand raised to rub his neck in embarrassment, but how could he cheat himself of indulging in the view that sent pixies fluttering madly through his chest? 

“Y-yyy-you do, I m-mean. Not me.” 

“I’d have to disagree,” Azira breathed, lost in a sensation of intoxicating adulation. 

“Uh. Hello?” Anathema grinned, looking back and forth between them. 

“Huh? Oh. Hey,” Crowley said, turning his head toward her in an indication that he noticed her presence, but remaining transfixed on the angel before him. 

The witch gave a great roll of her eyes, shaking her head as she unceremoniously shoved past the pair and chortled, “You two are a couple of dumbass gays, you know that?” 

The comment went entirely unnoticed by the duo, who remained spellbound within one another's presence until the excited chattering of impending students finally distracted them. For every moment they had basked in admiration, the minutes of ecstatic activity that came after went fleeting by. Greetings were exchanged, students bantered with, and photos taken. Crowley dished out several “who would have thought you lot would clean up this nice”s while Azira distributed “don’t you look just marvelous?”s with a wholesome enthusiasm.

The first waltzes were performed, and Crowley and Azira danced rather several of them together. Anathema had been honest- the pure-blood did have a solid grasp on ballroom dance. However, he delighted in mixing styles together, keeping his partner entertained and on his toes. On occasions such as these, when the redhead’s spirits were so high, his playful demeanor was infectious. It was impossible for Azira to refrain from grinning like a madman all the while, sounding a laugh that was heaven-sent whenever Crowley would suddenly twirl him or fall dramatically backwards into his arms with the well-placed trust that his partner would catch him.

The pair managed to pull themselves away from one another long enough to politely rotate through other partners. While the Muggle-born spun round and round with Anathema, Crowley found himself offering a dance to Professor McGonagall. 

“So, you finally managed to muster the courage,” she mused mid-waltz, eyebrows raised and a scarce, secret grin gracing her stern face. 

“What do you mean?” 

“To ask Azira to the ball. Only took you- oh dear, how long was it? Twenty-five years?” 

“Www-wh-what?” Crowley stuttered out, cursing himself as he felt blood pool to his cheeks, “You knew?” 

“Professor Crowley. Who didn’t? The staff had a betting pool. I suppose I should thank you; two decades later and I’ve finally won the pot.”

For lack of a better reaction, Crowley let out a loud laugh. He was unsure if he should be embarrassed, impressed, or flattered by the fact that not only had Minerva gambled over students’ social affairs, but she also appeared to have been in his corner.

“Always pleased to bring about the unexpected, Professor McGonagall,” he managed back with some semblance of aplomb. 

The Yule Feast was served mid-way through the evening festivities. While Azira savoured the holiday delicacies, they played an innocent little game of the more devilish man’s devising, in which they would choose a couple of the more theatrical students and speak on their behalf, making up ridiculous exchanges. It was a quiet tournament between the two of them that left them snorting and giggling above their dishes. Anathema’s unexpected contribution as she squeezed in between them nearly had Crowley spitting out his wine from hysterics. 

After supper, more contemporary entertainment was provided by one of the UK’s most famed modern wizarding bands, The Benevolent Boggarts. The teenager in Crowley came out as he marveled, “How on Earth did you get them to agree to this?” and Azira answered only with a secretive smile and a coy, “I have my ways.” 

The blonde kindly refused his date’s offer to cavort about the ballroom floor, finding he wasn’t much one for free-form dance. However, he took utter delight in watching the redhead dance with the students, admiring his courage to debut his awful moves without a hint of self-consciousness or fear of making a fool of himself. The sense about his childhood friendship with the Weasley twins was clear as day. 

It was true, any occupant of Hogwarts could be asked who the favorite professor on staff was, and the answer would always be Crowley. Even Gabriel Goodbody would be begrudged to admit it. It wasn’t any enigma; it was for reasons like this. For as persistent the illusion of him caring about image, he would throw it away on a dime to make his students laugh or bring others the slightest bit of joy. The words ‘good’ and ‘kind’ came immediately to Azira’s mind. He couldn’t help but wonder what had been said and who had said it to make the man loathe being praised down to his core. Whoever the mystery offender, the Muggle-born decided they were absolutely his enemy. 

“Whoo-ee!” Crowley panted, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath after gallivanting back over to his date, “It’s getting warm in here. Shall we step outside?” 

“You? Want to go outside? Into the cold?” 

“Yes. A walk about and I’ll be back up and raring to go in no time.”

“We could just sit down, I can get you some water?”

“Well I _ had _ a plan to smoothly say, ‘shall we step outside?’ and you would say, ‘Professor Crowley, I’d be absolutely elated to join you,’ and then I would bring you out to the gardens where you’d be utterly spellbound by its transformation, but you seem hell bent on resisting that suave move.”

“Oh! Terribly sorry. Ask again.” 

Crowley grinned, anybody else and that would’ve ruined it, but Azira was so heartfelt about being accommodating to his shenanigans, always, and he couldn’t help but fall victim to the captivating sensations of love he felt toward him for it. It had never been a matter of giving Azira his heart. He’d had it for quite some time now, whether or not he remained ignorant about it. The librarian had done a remarkable job of preserving it for being so unaware of its presence in his pocket.

“Care for a stroll outside?” 

“Ah! Professor Crowley, I’d be absolutely elated to join you.” 

Azira cursed the heat pooling to his cheeks as he gazed up at the absolutely enchanting image of Crowley, looking like a prince with that devilishly handsome grin on his face and offering his arm to him. He took it, gladly, and matched strides with the redhead as they wandered through the great glass doors and found themselves outside. 

“Well?” his companion said, and it was only now that Azira realized he was appreciating the wrong view. He turned his head, and all his other senses- the prickling reception of the cold on his skin, the soft thrumming of his heart in his chest, the shaky inhale of the icy air- were begged to cease to allow opportunity for his eyes to take it all in, unimpeded. 

The typically wild, ungroomed hedges now boasted smooth spirals that tapered near their tops, spinning in place as they fed into the gentle waves of the shrubs. The spackle of stars upon the dark, velvety black sky were shining with a shameless splendor, and they cradled a full, opulent moon among them. The gentle beams of white light that came down from it coaxed the blooms of the shrubbery out from their hiding places of dark, bristley botanical refuge. The flowers were unlike anything Azira had ever scene, petals fluttering and spinning playfully on the massive blossoms as they emitted an enrapturing white glow, illuminating the entire garden. The way they swayed in response to the moonlight was utterly reminiscent of the persuasive push and pull of the ocean’s tides. 

“Have they always been here?” he exhaled at long last, unaware of the glowing amber eyes that gazed at him with unwavering expectancy.

“The flowers? Oh yeahhh. Looked miserable, though. Had to put the fear of God- or rather the fear of Crowley into them to shape them up. The rest of the garden just took patient maintenance,” he explained, trying his very best not to betray how absolutely pleased he was. As far as he was concerned, this was sort of their first date, and it was sort of going perfectly. 

“I’ve never- never seen them before.” 

“L- i- lll- eh, lunar Lantana, only blossom on nights of the full moon.”

“It’s… my Dear Boy, it’s-”

A soft rustle and shushing came from behind a nearby shrub, and Azira was snapped back into chaperone mode, leaning around to see who the culprits were.

“Miss Macmillan, Mr. Aves, I believe you’ve gotten a bit lost. Inside. Now, if you don’t mind.”

The seventh year Slytherin boy and Hufflepuff girl shot up out of the bushes, looking out of sorts and donning dark shades of red visible even in the dim light as they scurried into the ballroom. Azira turned to share a look of disapproval with Crowley, and admonished himself for bothering to be surprised when he found the man snickering. 

“You shouldn’t encourage that kind of behavior, Crowley,” he scolded.

“Oh, _ c’mon, _Professor Fell, we were all students once. You mean to tell me you never snogged in the garden?” 

“You mean to tell me you _ did? _” 

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“And neither do you, apparently,” Azira retorted smartly, earning a coy grin from Crowley that made his heart skip a beat. 

“I am quite the scoundrel, aren’t I?” 

The tone of the music drifting out the open windows changed to something different, something slow and soft and familiar, and Azira struggled to keep his breath even as he turned back to the wicked smile that was far more charming than it had any right to be. A long, slender hand was held out to him, the red cape about the shoulder attached to it fluttering in the wind. As the voice of the Benevolent Boggart’s front-man singer started sounding, Azira placed the tune as Queen’s ‘Play the Game’. 

“But you _ will _ dance with me anyway, won’t you?” 

Crowley appeared confident, suave, but there was an unmistakable undertone of anxiety, a fear of being rejected the way so many attempts had rendered him before. Azira reached out his hand instinctively but half-way there, faltered.

Clearly, his friend had planned this. He had put so much work into every detail. If he didn’t know better, Azira would think he’d spend hours stringing the moon up to be placed just so, the stars dimmed just right, and each bloom of each flower meticulously placed. All at once, he wondered if he wasn’t being asked for a dance, if he was being asked for something much more. Despite this all being of Crowley’s devising, Azira heard the warning bells, the shouts of stranded sailors, and felt very much like a siren, pulling the careless, devoted admirer out to sea. He thought of the face of dead Crowley that haunted his dreams. He was plagued with flashes of the face of dead Cedric that haunted his reality. His fingers began to flinch closed.

“Angel- Azira,” Crowley pleaded, his face softened to something much more gentle and understanding than it had been before. Azira felt like he’d read his mind as easily as words etched onto parchment, “I’m not taking you anywhere. We can slow down. Hell, we can stay right here, in this moment- anything you want.” 

And that was enough. Time stopped, no spells required. They weren’t going too fast, or going anywhere at all as his angel’s soft, warm hand gripped the icy digits of his own. Ever so slowly, they pulled close, chest to chest, and swayed in a moment independent of reality. In these stollen seconds, they could drift together in a sea of glowing flowers, unafraid of drowning. The stars in Crowley’s eyes felt so much more beautiful, so much more _ real _ than the ones that hung overhead, and Azira found himself more inclined than ever to traverse them. 

_ “ _ _ Open up your mind and let me step inside _

_ Rest your weary head and let your heart decide _

_ It's so easy when you know the rules _

_ It's so easy all you have to do _

_ Is fall in love _

_ Play the game _

_ Everybody play the game of love” _

Hypnotized hearts beat in synchrony, flushed foreheads fell together, and as one body exhaled a sigh of sweet sentimentality, the other inhaled it in a cycle so comfortable it felt second-nature. Their lips were mere centimeters apart as the mellifluous music faded into the magical atmosphere. 

“_ This is your life _

_ Don’t play hard to get _

_ It’s a free world _

_ All you have to do is--” _

The spell between them was broken by a cacophony of panicked screams and microphone feedback, snapping each wizard back to his own mind and body. 

“Oh Lord, please, nothing else,” Azira prayed. 

Though their bodies parted, their hands remained tightly clasped while the pair broke into a sprint to return to the hall, wands drawn on instinct. 

The room’s glow had soured from a comforting blue to a menacing shade of red. Up amongst the enchanted stars hung two limp bodies. One a fifth year Ravenclaw girl named Beatrice Beetle and the other-

“_ Fawley!” _Crowley cried to no avail. 

“Did you think you could escape reality? Stop the world from turning?” echoed a sinister voice that, that while being so familiar, the Herbologist could not place, “The true heir of Slytherin has risen to complete the tasks their predecessors have failed to fulfill. Do you think he’ll be happy with the state of the Wizarding World? I believe he’ll be rather _ displeazzzzzed _.” 

The two students rotated slowly in the air- faraway, entranced expressions on their faces. 

_ “Finite incantatem!” _several professors tried at once, to no avail. 

_ “Renervate!” _Crowley shouted in desperation.

_ “Surgito!” _Azira growled with amassing frustration. 

Save for the despairing incantations of the Hogwarts staff, the room was absolutely silent. The voice of the invader continued.

“Things are about to change for our kind… but something’s got to give. We must clean things up for our master’s arrival. What should be taken care of first? The Muggle-borns who have invaded and corrupted the sanctity of wizard-kind?” 

The body of Beatrice was viciously thrown to the ground like a ragdoll in a child’s tantrum. 

“Or the blood-traitors who have forsaken us?” 

Crowley attempted to lunge forth to catch Fawley’s limp body as it too came crashing down with a cruel celerity. He found himself too late, and fought the fear permeating his bones, begging him to submit as he grabbed the boy in his arms and listened for a heartbeat, hanging onto the tiniest inkling of hope.

“I suppozzze we’ll have to see. How intriguing. I can’t wait.” 

The voice fell silent. Darkness enveloped the room.

* * *

The last twenty-four hours had bombarded Hogwarts with chaos as the staff scrambled to reinstate order and normalcy. All students returning home for the holidays had been sought off as early as possible. Professors were temporarily re-housed to stay within the house dormitories to ensure the safety of those left behind. Crowley missed the Hogwarts Express departure for the first time in his decade of employment, solidly situated in an infirmary chair between Adrien Fawley and Beatrice Beetle’s beds. All three of them appeared as if they’d ventured through Hell and back. 

Azira took in his companion’s sorry state as he set down a mug of tea and a book he thought he’d like beside him. The professor was sprawled out in his chair in a manner that would have his limbs aching something fierce later on. His glasses were askew. His jacket and cape had long since been shed, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his shirt untucked. Those lovely red locks upon his head were now sticking every which way after a night of being anxiously tugged on. 

“Crowley,” Azira murmured in a soft tone, resting a mindful hand on his friend’s shoulder. The other wizard jumped upright, on edge, but calmed at the librarian’s presence. 

“Oh. Must’ve dozed off.” 

“How are they?”

“M- eh- it’s- mmm- Madame Pomfrey says they’ll be right as rain in no time. Few broken bones, but nothing some potions can’t fix up. They probably won’t even remember what happened. Blishwick’s the real victim here. You should have seen her. Poor thing. Her friends practically dragged her to the train station. Have they figured out how it happened?” 

“There's a five second gap in the protection wards from last night, long enough for something to slip in. Aurors are stationed on the grounds until they can figure out what caused it and offer a guarantee it won't happen again."

A long pause passed between them.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Crowley.

“What for, my dear?” 

“That I didn’t believe you. That I said it was just propaganda.”

Another silence.

“How can I blame you for hoping for better?” 

“Yeah, well. I should have _ known _ better. These people. I grew up with them. This is bad news, Azira,” Crowley snatched off his glasses to rub his tired eyes, revealing dark shadows below them. Uneager to elaborate, he jumped subjects, “You’re off for the holidays, then?” 

“Oh, I don’t know if I should-”

“Azira. Go. Like you said, there are aurors now. Besides, I’ll keep everything above water. Go be with your family. Anyone stuck here over the holidays would kill to have somewhere to be. Seems ungrateful, suffering on purpose.” 

Azira hesitated, wishing to argue but finding himself unable to. Crowley was right. There were plenty of people holding down the fort. All he could contribute was yet another anxious presence. Meanwhile, the Herbologist always stayed at Hogwarts over breaks, an essential element in keeping the students’ spirits up. 

“How about you? You’ll go visit the Heller’s at some point, won’t you?” 

“W- www- eh- worried about me, Angel? I’m flattered. Going home to visit tomorrow, but just for a couple days. Coming back here in time for dinner on Christmas Day. Promised the lot staying that we’d have a Quidditch match.” 

“And I’ll see you at Anathema’s for New Years?” 

Crowley stopped himself from making a tasteless joke about being attacked by Death Eaters before then, well aware Azira wouldn’t appreciate the dark humor.

“See you there.” 

The Muggle-born nodded and gave the pure-blood’s shoulder a tight squeeze before turning and making his way to his office to pack. He paused before reaching the door to the infirmary. 

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?” his friend responded, head resting against the back of the chair he slumped down in and arms crossed over his chest.

“I know you’re taking care of the students staying behind, but please remember to take care of yourself, too.” 

“Always do, Angel.”

Azira felt unconvinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to @yourlocalnerd here and on twitter! Happy belated birthday, Sweet Pea! 
> 
> Sorry for the late update, my computer charger exploded!!! :o


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an unexpected turn of events, Crowley joins Azira's family for Christmas. The trio spend New Years with Newt, who's bad luck with technology leads to the exposure of secrets beyond his comprehension.

The Yuletide season has a reputation across several cultures for summoning charity, kindness, and love in a manner that is lacking in any other time of year. As is usually true of reputations, this is an exaggerated notion brought about by a heavy lean towards one side of the fence. To provide a more realistic example of what occurs during the holidays, one must perform a balancing act upon the barrier and pirouette upon it to gain equal measure of the truth on either side. Many donate their time and money during this time, and many seek out the flooded markets as an opportunity to shoplift or pickpocket. For those who are kind, there are an equal number of those who yell at seasonally employed shopkeeps for not having a specific scent of candle in stock. While a feeling of love permeates most homes on Christmas Day, vitriol burns brighter than ever in the hearts of many, uneeding of a holiday as an excuse to stoke its flames. 

That Christmas Day, the Death Eaters chose to spread those flames to the houses of many innocent Muggle-born families. News traveled slow. The prophet had yet to begin covering the story. But Crowley had spent the few days of his holiday so far lamenting more over the darkness than rejoicing in festivities. He’d been on edge, keeping track of any odd occurrences and staying in touch with his friends in an urgent attempt to calm his nerves. So when he’d received a letter from Azira informing him that his own parent’s cottage had mysteriously caught fire over the night, and that he hadn’t a clue how he was going to begin to fix it, but not to worry himself with it on such a special day, Crowley didn’t have to wonder about what had happened. A maddening flurry of anxieties plagued his mind, quickly pursued by potential actions and ideas to satiate them, but none succeeded until he found himself there.

At the door of Azira’s parents’ cottage.

On Christmas Day.

“Auuughh, what are you doing?” he hissed at himself, turning around to demolish his meticulously styled hair with fisted fingers yet again, “Ngh. Nah. No. This is fine. He wrote to you. You were in the neighborhood. ‘s fine.” 

A red-painted fingernail bolted to ring the bell faster than a zouwo could strike. Crowley felt simultaneously smug and deeply wronged, both at the expense of himself. No escape now. Nothing to do but look cool. As cool as he could look wearing a ridiculous Christmas sweater that read “Hail Santa” under his red-lined, black robes.

The willowy figure leaned against the pillar of the porch, hands stuffed deep into his pockets and ankles crossed while amber eyes surveyed the exterior damage done by the fire. 

With some luck, the distraction proved fruitful in keeping his anxieties of anyone other than his angel answering the door at bay. Such concerns were unneeded, anyway. Surprised blue eyes greeted him as the door swung open, and the features that accompanied them softened and gaped.

“Angel! Happy Christmas.”

Azira blinked blankly before finding his voice along with his thoughts, smiling warmly, if not with a touch of confusion, “Happy Christmas. To what do I owe the pleasure, Crowley?” 

“Ah- ehh, w- wa- was in the neighborhood, dropping off Fawley for the holiday. You two are practically neighbors you know. Anyway, remembered you said you were pants with reconstruction spells. Thought I’d come offer some help; I’m pretty practiced with them. Benefits of being a retired miscreant and all,” he explained in a casual voice, eyebrows dancing about over the rim of his glasses as he did so. His eyes avoided Azira’s lest he be rejected entry, instead opting to survey the unfamiliar countryside he found himself in.

“Oh! He’s alright now, then? I’m so relieved! And how nice of you to take him home!”

“Mmmmfffgh.” 

“Even kinder of you to go out of your way to think of us!”

“Ughhhhh, don’t _ torture _ me, Angel, not today. Can I come in, then?”

“Of course, Dear Boy! Where are my manners?” 

The door was held open and Crowley slipped inside. Beneath the distinct smell of ash and char, he could smell herbal tea, old books, and a flowery perfume. The little cottage was homey, with family photos and horrible children’s art lining every wall and surface. It was heavily decorated for the holiday, though the poor pine tree was half-way in cinders. Shattered glass was the only remains of the ornaments that had exploded from the heat. The shards lay amongst charred gifts below the tree’s remaining branches. The flowers of the wall paper were scorched and peeled, and cracks lined the blackened damage of the wall. 

Figuring he could work and chat at the same time, Crowley rolled up his sleeves. Disheartenment plagued him at the view of the destruction, and his only solace was in the fact that Azira remained unaware that this was a hate crime. 

“Where’s the family? Thought you said yours was a big lot?” 

In truth, he was quite relieved it was just the two of them. Charming as he could manage to be, anxiety ate away at him whenever he met his friends’ families. Especially the family of his crush. _ Especially _ when they were Muggles. Not that he had any issue with them. Their world simply held so much of the unfamiliar that it appeared quite intimidating to him. He muttered a spell and swished his applewood wand, pacing alongside the scorched walls and honing his focus to ensure all damage was repaired properly. 

“Mass.”

Crowley paused in his journey, breaking his concentration to give Azira a blank look.

“Church?”

“Ah,” he responded with a glaring lack of interest. His focus returned to the task at hand but was not devoted enough to forgo teasing his companion, “Not you, though? Thought you were a good Christian boy, Angel.”

“Oh well, I meant to fix all this up while they were away. I really am so relieved you came to help! Your appearance is truly a Christmas miracle,” he beamed, eyes growing soft with fondness as he watched a blush creep over Crowley’s features, “Oh! But what about you? Aren’t you supposed to be with your family this morning?” 

“Left yesterday. Bisabuela paid an unexpected visit. The woman absolutely loathes me. Says I have ‘los ojos del diablo’. Won’t shut her yap about it ‘til I leave. Mum was keen on kicking her out, but I figured the old bat’s on her last leg anyway, probably her last Christmas. Bisabuela can have the battle, I’ll have the war.” 

“She says you have what, now?”

“‘The Devil’s eyes’,” the visitor grumbled as he turned away to care for the far wall deep within the confines of the cozy living room.

“Oh, Crowley,” Azira sympathized, though the offer was waved away by a passive free hand on his friend’s part. 

He fixed up the presents beneath the tree, then approached the pine itself, crooning in soft tones to it, “Pity. You were a beauty, weren’t you? Probably didn’t need any coaching at all to grow proper- just did it. Let’s set you right.” 

The focus was so dedicated to the tree he didn’t notice the boisterous entry of several Fell family members. Soft incantations were uttered under his breath, his free hand drawn under the branches to coax them up as his wand pulled them forward. Fresh sprigs of pine needles emerged from the newly grown branches. A bit of praise was awarded before Crowley swirled the tip of his wand around the ground, the fallen ornaments reversing their shattering and returning to their proper places on the tree.

“That was BLOODY WICKED!” shouted the voice of a young boy. Crowley turned to see a boy roughly about the age of 8 gaping at him, and he couldn’t help but offer a debonair grin and a little bow, flourishing one hand and holding the other out to his side.

“Grigori, language,” groaned a tired woman as she shuffled through the door, stomping on the rug to get the snow off her boots. When her familiar blue eyes turned to find the stranger in the small cottage, performing magic, they flicked to Azira. A devious grin that Crowley was not able to decipher took over her features, and the eyes returned to give him a good once-over.

“Aunty Tracy,” the newcomer craned her neck to call out the door in a sing-song voice.

“Now Ariel- wait just a moment--,” Azira pleaded with an anxiety Crowley could only wonder the source of. 

“Azira’s brought a man home!” 

“He WHAT!” returned an elated, bouncy voice.

The poor pure-blood had no idea what he’d gotten himself into, but one thing was for certain- it was far more than he bargained for. A whirlwind of a woman burst into the room, and soon he found himself hunched forward, his cheeks being squeezed, his hair being mussed, and his shoulders pushed back as he was fussed over in a way he’d only been as a child by the hands of Thelpie. 

“Ohhh! What a handsome young chap! So tall, too! Aren’t you just such a smart wizard? Where did you find him, Azira? Why didn’t you say anything? Oh! If I had a lad like this I certainly wouldn’t hide it!”

“Mum-,” Azira started, turning a shade of red that Crowley would marvel at if his face wasn’t firmly grasped in the old woman’s hands. The sky in her eyes was so similar to that of his beloved’s, it was no wonder she was his mother. A colorful sheer scarf was wrapped around her short bright red curls, and excessive, brightly colored makeup and false lashes decorated her features. She was an attractive woman, very youthful in both appearance and spirit for her age.

“So skinny though. You poor thing. Have you eaten properly, today? My my, your face is pink, are you feeling quite well, Dear? Oh! And you don’t have any tea! Azira, didn’t you offer your boyfriend any tea? Where are your manners, young man?” 

“He’s not- He’s- We’re- Crowley’s a colleague, from school. A friend. He heard about the fire and came to help fix things up.”

“Cooo-eee, and he’s thoughtful, too! Shame you’re not together. What a waste of such a striking little prince,” she cooed in disappointment while adjusting Crowley’s robes. 

“Tracy, Darling, you’re suffocating the poor man, give him some air,” came a laugh. She complied for long enough that the victim of her ministrations was allowed to spot his savior. If his voice was gone before, it was dust in the wind now. The man looked almost identical to Azira, only older, with a well groomed beard and dark grey curls. He was just as smartly dressed with equally vintage clothing. The only thing different was his brown eyes, gleaming with intelligence. If Azira aged like this, like a fine cabernet, Anthony was in danger of falling deeper into his attraction instead of climbing out of it. “What’s your name, Dear Boy?” 

“I- I.. eh, erm. Anthmfgh,” he tried, feeling quite on the spot as at least a dozen more people poured into the house, and each set of eyes turned to his presence. 

“What’s that, Love?” Azira’s mother hummed, tilting her head and offering a kind smile that immediately soothed his nerves. So that’s where Azira got it from.

“Ahem.. that’s.. Er… Anthony J. Crowley. Pleasure.” 

“Anthony! What a charming name. You just call me Madame Tracy. This is my husband, Atticus. Won’t you stay for lunch, Dear?” 

“Eh, that’s- I’m… er… I really should-”

“Oh pish posh! Of course you’ll stay! After all, we must thank you for all this lovely work you’ve done restoring our home. What a talented young man you are! Let me get you a nice cup of tea,” and with that she was off to the kitchen. The house came to life around Crowley like he never imagined was possible in the absence of magic. 

“Sorry about that,” Azira empathized. 

“Does she always do that?” Crowley exhaled in a trance, feeling quite dizzy.

“Bombard you with compliments, you mean?” 

“Yeah, that.”

Azira laughed, offering his friend a comforting pat on the shoulder and smiling widely, “You get used to it.” 

Crowley doubted that. 

“Is everyone here…?” 

“A Muggle? No. There’s some from my mum’s side of the family, some from my dad’s.” 

“How do I-?”

“Do you need to?” Azira challenged him, not with anything resembling an edge, but with an abundance of patience. 

“S’pose not.” 

The blonde couldn’t help but smile. It was clear that despite his determination to appear comfortable, Crowley cared very deeply about the impression he gave his family. Azira found it incredibly endearing. 

“Mr. Wizard, sir!” chirped a voice. Upon further inspection, it came from the same boy who had thrown the pure-blood a compliment from across the room only moments before. He was accompanied by an identical child now, presumably his twin.

Intrigued at the manner in which his attention was requested, Crowley squatted down to be closer to eye level with the children, resting his forearms on his knees, “Aye, how can I be of service?”

“That was real magic, right?” 

“As opposed to?”

“The magic Azira does when we ask him to show us! Silly parlor tricks!”

“Well, only if you insist on seeing them that way. Magic is all about the belief, you know,” Azira performed mystical jazz hands, nearing the children.

“Parlor tricks?” Crowley asked, “What, you mean simple stuff like lumos and whatnot?” 

“No! Muggle magic!” Azira exclaimed with a childlike enthusiasm that only seemed to grow as he observed his friend’s cluelessness, “Oh, Crowley! Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it? Allow me to enlighten you. Oh! How exciting!”

The next several minutes were filled with frankly ridiculous displays involving cards, coins, and a very excited Azira fumbling in an attempt to recall how exactly he was meant to perform them to begin with. Crowley sipped at the tea Madame Tracey had brought him (which had far too many sugars for his liking, but he wasn’t about to be rude). An amused look sat upon his face, though it had no correlation to any meter of how impressed he was. Frankly he was quite _ un _ impressed, but Azira’s spirit was so precious and devoted that he had to give him credit for his showmanship. At one point Azira had to ask, “Is _ this _ your card?” five separate times, taking the giggles from the gaggle of children that had gathered like a champion after Crowley would recite an aloof, “nnnnnope,” popping the ‘p’ every time. Anthony had to credit himself as much as Azira, as he was doing an impeccable job masking the surges of pixies fluttering through him as the man he was so fond of dipped in and out of his space. At one point, Azira reached behind that red head of hair, flourishing his hand to display a coin with a performative gasp. 

“That was behind your ear!” 

“That was _ no where _ near my ear- Ang- Azira, what _ is _this? You can do proper magic!” Crowley finally laughed, baffled at what he’d spent the last twenty minutes witnessing. 

“Oh come on! It’s fun, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” the Herbologist admitted, glad he did so once he saw the sunshine pouring into those vast blue skies and the little wrinkles that appeared next to them as Azira smiled with such fervor. 

After the sad excuse for a magic show, the children began running rampant. Every step was a dance around a different body and every word was drowned out by a chorus of shouts and laughter. Crowley found himself gradually relaxing into the environment. He was used to children. Liked them, obviously. Anywhere they were, he could feel at home too, as that’s really all he was- a big kid at heart. The adults attempting to prepare for lunch appeared frazzled, nearly dropped their platters and plates as children zoomed beneath them. One of Azira’s cousins screamed as one particular youth almost ran straight into a knife they were holding.

“Oh dear,” Madame Tracy sighed out, tapping her cheek with a long index finger nail, “This simply won’t do.”

“Oi you lot!” Crowley barked out, immediately gaining the attention of the five children, “Let’s take this party outside. There’s a snowball fight with your names on it.” 

“But it’s so cold!” pouted the boy who had first spotted him, finger unceremoniously shoved up his nose. 

“What’s that? Scared you’ll lose? Last one out’s a rotten bubotuber!” 

He rushed for the back door, becoming part of a pile of tiny humans scrambling to push each other out of the way so they might be the first out. One of the Muggle children rushed out after them, shouting, “Wait! What’s a bubotuber!” 

“Oh thank the Lord,” sighed Azira’s Aunt Talia, “I like your new boyfriend, Azira. A blessing, him.” 

“So good with children, too!” Tracy cooed while looking out the window. The children were attempting to overpower the lanky man with tackles backed by warcries. He let them win for a while, dramatically reaching to the heavens as he fell to the ground. He played dead for a moment before roaring back to life, throwing the children, laughing and screaming, into mounds of white fluff. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Azira repeated in equal measures of irritation and embarrassment. He was grateful the two aunts on his father’s side and his cousins were setting the tables, or he’d positively drown in the gossip.

“What, you waiting for a formal invitation?” mused his Aunt Tessa, who was propped up on the counter drinking what was undoubtedly one too many cups of spiked eggnog. She had made no effort to help the other adults with preparations, too enamored with the liquid in her glass, “A handsome little piece of arse like that doesn’t come around every day, Azira.” 

“Isn’t that the truth,” Talia agreed, “And he obviously fancies you.”

“You should listen to your Aunties,” his mother backed her witch sisters as she fanned a casserole she’d just pulled from the steaming oven with a cloth. 

“Oh, leave our sweet Azira alone, the lot of you,” scolded Atticus half-heartedly, with no real aggression behind his soft voice. The wizard smiled appreciatively at his father, grateful for the rescue. His father smiled back, handing him his own glass of eggnog and clasping him on the shoulder, “It was awfully kind of him to come lend a hand. You must be close.” 

The relief he felt that someone was finally offering to hear about their relationship without _ interrogating _ or _ assuming _ felt like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. Azira smiled, “Oh, yes. I was worried about making acquaintances when I first joined staff, but Crowley and I made fast friends. In fact, I don’t know how anyone could resist his friendship. He’s incredibly kind- and has an excellent sense of humor- and just remarkable with the students- and he’s an absolutely brilliant academic! You should see his research, Dad. I’ve never seen someone more devoted to their thesis.” 

“Sure, and you’re _ not _ interested at all,” teased Tessa after the slew of praise, raising her free hand in a gesture of innocence at Azira’s pointed glare and rolling her eyes before hopping off the counter to refill her glass. 

“He’s from a Wizarding family?” Atticus inquired. 

“Yes, one of the oldest ones.”

Talia geared a confused glance in Tessa’s direction, unaware of any old Wizarding family called ‘Crowley’. Tessa responded with an easily defeated shrug. Tracy pursed her lips in thought, trying to recall all the names of the sacred pure-blood families. 

“Well, good. I’m glad you have someone from that world looking out for you,” his father said in a soft tone, offering a comforting smile as he reached out to fix Azira’s hair. 

“Dad, I am forty-one years old, you know. I’m quite capable of looking out for myself.” He kept to himself the fact that if it was either of them that had to look after the other, it was him for Crowley. 

“Perhaps. But you’re still my son, and I worry about you, you know. If anything happened to you or Michael out there, your mother and I would have nothing to do about it.” 

“Oh, come on, now. It’s no more dangerous than the Muggle world,” Talia chided. Azira found himself in remarkable disagreeance, the only exception he could think of being automatic firearms, “Now, you boys help us set out the food. Atticus, get those lazy brothers of yours over here to help.” 

Azira pulled his mother carefully to the side, murmuring quietly, “Mum, I know it goes against every bone in your body, but will you please not press Crowley to eat? And perhaps don’t make a fuss over it. It makes him very nervous.” Her eyes shone with curiosity, but she nodded with a gentle little smile.

After the adult and children’s tables were set up properly with a beautiful arrangement of food, Tracy called their guest and the children inside, gaining several groans of protest, as they’d only just finished building the barriers for their snowball fight. Crowley complied eagerly, quite at his limit for tolerating the chilly temperatures. He took off his scarf, and appeared surprised when Atticus asked to take his robes as well. 

Well. When in Rome, he supposed. He stripped himself of his cloak, thanking the man as they were taken to the coat rack near the fire to dry. 

Anxiety gnawed at his stomach yet again as Azira beckoned him over to the table, though he found a bit of relief that he would be able to sit next to his familiar companion. Kids were easy. This was the hard part- interacting with adults. Some of them _ Muggle _ adults. He awkwardly complied to bowing his head and staying quiet while the family prayed. Growing up under a sort of Theistic Satanism in both his childhood homes had soured the taste of Christianity for him, though he and Azira had never really delved into the topic before. Soon enough it was over, and there was cheerful chattering and bustling to load up plates with food. He placed some on his plate, as he always did to avoid obvious attention, and pushed it around with the prongs of his fork. It did look good. Smelled good, too. He’d venture to guess it tasted good, except every food had the same distinct flavour to him- sand. 

“So Anthony, what subject do you teach?” 

“Herbology, and he’s bloody brilliant at it too,” said a familiar voice, the smile perceptible in their speech. 

Crowley raised his head curiously, eyeing over the young blonde woman who had spoken. She was currently donning quite the mischievous smirk on her lips.

“... Hell’s bells! Lucy Abbott, is that you? Would you look at that, I didn’t even recognize you! All grown up!” he blurted out excitedly, a huge grin plastered onto his face. When Azira said his mother from a wizarding family, he had no idea he meant the Abbots. He looked around for Hannah, a good friend of his back in school days, before realizing she must be a more distant cousin. Wizarding families were, after all, vast and complex.

“Hey there, Professor Crowley. I’m so glad cousin Azira didn’t waste time finding the cool crowd,” she laughed. 

“That’s right, Lucy graduated in 2012, I didn’t even realize you must have taught her. Was she a good student?” Azira chimed in. He loved seeing how beloved Crowley was, even by students 6 years gone. It made his chest swell with pride, for some reason. 

“The best.” 

“And the _ favorite _, right Professor Crowley?” she said smugly, expression not faltering.

“W- we- wi- eh. Well, _ obviously _,” he retorted, “What are you up to these days?” 

“I work on the Preservation of Magical Vegetation Task Force,” she said, unable to rid her face of an excited smile, as if she’d been about to burst waiting to inform her old Herbology professor of her new career.

“Nnn-no kidding?” Crowley said, very glad he was wearing sunglasses as he felt his eyes water from pride, “I ought to thank you, then. Your lot makes it much easier for mine to get down to the nitty gritty. Knew you’d be alright, out in the world.” 

The girl looked overwhelmingly pleased with herself at the praise from the wizard that had influenced her most deeply in her schooling. 

Chatter continued, and Crowley found he had vastly underrated his ability to stay afloat in conversation. The Muggle bits were tedious, but he navigated them with minimal stuttering and discomfort all the same. Azira’s uncles tried to discuss football with him. Apparently they were making fun of him, because at one point Azira scolded them for toying with Crowley’s ignorance. He gave them a taste of their own medicine and, knowing his friend was an absolute nutter for Quidditch, breached the topic of, “Aunt Tessa is a Quidditch Sportscaster. Crowley is absolutely mad for Quidditch.” 

The witch and wizard excitedly took the bait, debating different aspects of the sport- what teams were doing the best and what teams had doom spelled out, who was the best seeker, results of the most recent games. Finally, feeling quite stupid, Crowley felt the blood drain from his face, and he nearly fainted, “W- wha- w- eh- wait- You’re Therese S-ssss-sterling- _ the _ Therese Sterling.” 

“The one and only, Love,” she grinned smarmily, downing the rest of her wine and pouring more for their guest. 

Azira basked in the opportunity to watch Crowley turn into an utter fanboy, gushing over his aunt’s sportscasting in a manner that was typically reserved for plants. He was far too excited to be embarrassed, and suddenly the blonde wondered why on earth he hadn’t introduced his beloved best friend to his family much, much sooner. 

A figure at the archway of the room reminded him. 

“Michael! Oh, Darling! I thought you weren’t going to be able to come home!” cooed Madame Tracy, standing and rushing to her eldest child to wrap them into a loving hug and lay several kisses on their cheek. 

“Yes. Well. Wrapped up the case early. The usual offenders- elitist pure-bloods,” they said bitterly, giving the visitor at the table a look of such vitriol that Crowley couldn’t miss it from a mile away. It didn’t bother him. A lifetime of such treatment tended to make an individual numb to its reception. He turned to raise an eyebrow at Azira, as if to say ‘You warned me. They really are a piece of work, eh?’, but was concerned to find the object of his affections whiter than a ghost, blue eyes now clouded with a raging storm as they stared at his plate. That wasn’t the strangest part- the wizard had _ stopped eating _ . His fork had been _ set down _. The slow, deliberate, savoring bites he took had been abandoned, and now he seemed to have no appetite at all. 

Genius intellect wasn’t required to gather the family dynamic. People parted like waters to set a new place for Michael across the way, bombarding them with offers to fetch them this or fix them that. Other than Azira, the table seemed to return to normal. 

“So, Anthony, what’s the ‘J’ stand for?” Atticus inquired. 

Crowley grinned, readying his typical, ‘just a ‘j’, really,’ before he was interrupted by the harsh voice of the newcomer, “Jamison. Isn’t it? The name of your father, and his father, and his, and his. All those who carry that Crawly curse you’re trying to hide with those glasses. Those who _ tortured and slaughtered _ Muggles and Muggle-borns like inconsequential lab rats. I’ve read reports they even freed them on the grounds, defenseless, and hunted them for sports. The funny thing is, those reports _ aren’t that old _.” 

The table fell quiet, and Crowley swallowed hard, heart suddenly racing at the exposure. Years of ensuring Azira never knew about this, and there it was, as if it had been a remark on the weather today. On the edge of his consciousness, he heard inhuman shrieks for help. He felt grimy, blood soaked hands grab at his clothes, his arms, his ankles. He blinked, and suddenly the face of every table occupant was torn to shreds, twisted in anguish, dripping thick, blackish red goo. Sweat pooled on his brow and his breath quickened as the memories started seeping into his awareness of the present. He swallowed hard, again, and again. His heart felt like it was exploding in his chest, and he started sinking further into the quicksand that was the past. 

A comforting hand on his wrist below the table yanked him out from the danger, and he tried not to be too obvious as he sharply inhaled through his nose. How did he regain air? He fought to remember. Slow breaths. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. In. Out. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t in that God-awful place. He was here. With Azira. And Azira kept him safe. Azira kept him _ present _. 

“I was raised by the Hellers. Ha- hhhe- have you heard of them?” he asked, attempting to bite back and cursing his stutter for ruining the impact. 

Michael’s lips turned into a thin line as their blue eyes drove straight into him, as if they hoped they might pierce him all the way through, “I can’t say that I have.” 

“British-centric, are we? The Hellers are an ancient Wizarding family from Colombia. They’re renowned there, for criminalizing anti-Muggle-born propaganda and vanquishing Death Eater activity all throughout South and Central America for both the First _ and _ Second Wizarding War. Moved to the UK a few decades ago, took me in my first year at Hogwarts. Only family I’ve known ever since.”

Somehow, the line that made up Michael’s mouth grew even tighter.

“Are you sure? I heard you knew your father quite well at eighteen. I heard you cast the killing curse on him.” 

“Michael!-” both their parents started at the same time. Crowley was shocked to feel the hand around his wrist grow so tight it _ hurt _ him, nails nearly drawing blood. 

“_ Crowley _ does not torture or murder or do anything close to this nonsense you’re accusing him of. _ Crowley _ does research to save lives and reunite families. _ Crowley _ fought in the Battle of Hogwarts when he was only a student. Where were you, again? Gallivanting around America with Gabriel when there was a _ war on _ ?” Azira spat with a venom Anthony hadn’t dreamed he could attain. He tried not to turn his head but only glance at the man via his peripheral. His heart beat relentlessly for a reason entirely separate from the interrogation he was withstanding. The wizard looked filled with _ anger _\- no, that wasn’t the word.

Unadulterated fury.

That was a better description for the emotion captivating the blonde’s features. His sibling turned to give him a look that would pacify him. The expression translated into something more along the lines of shock as Azira refused to yield. Crowley had a feeling that this was a first. That this didn’t happen. That this was for _ him _. 

The family gasped in tandem at the realization that he’d participated in that battle, and all at once the guest at the table found himself bombarded with a much different attention- a considerably more positive one. Hearty praise came at him from every direction. This might have made him more nervous than the aggressive line of questioning had, but much to his relief, Azira’s savvy in gauging boundaries seemed to be a familial trait, as no one was tactless enough to ask him a single question. 

“How brave you must be, Anthony. Thank you. Thank you for standing up for little families like ours. Even when you didn’t have to. We can’t express how much that means,” Tracy said with tears in her eyes. Atticus gripped her hand firmly, looking at Crowley with the same heartfelt warmth. 

“N-nnnn-not brave at all,” the redhead muttered, ears turning pink as he shifted in his seat. 

“You’re being modest, Dearest,” Azira insisted. 

It was a great weight off Crowley’s shoulders when the topic changed, the dynamic returning to something more similar to that which was before Michael’s arrival. Atticus, knowing only the very generalized basics of the Wizarding world, still wished to connect to this young man who he only grew to admire more by the second. He wouldn’t push Azira like his mother and his aunts, but he wasn’t blind. Azira had brought men home. Men that he dated. Not once had he ever grown so defensive over a single one of them. Never before had he looked at them with the unbridled adoration that he donned when looking at Crowley. It was reminiscent of his teenage romance with Cedric Diggory. It made him braver, more determined. It made him believe in something. But this time it wasn’t a teenage infatuation. It wasn’t a first love. Clearly, he saw something in Anthony far deeper than any depth he’d ventured in his life up until this point. 

So he talked about the only thing he truly knew- literature. And to Azira’s great surprise (and a slight bit of arousal), Crowley was incredibly knowledgeable on the classics, though he admitted he’d always favored comedies. His friend wondered where he’d gotten this compendium of comprehension before recalling Valencia mentioning Crowley’s binge-reading of Azira’s favorites during the height of his childhood crush. 

Dinner finished up nicely despite Michael’s determination to ruin the holiday. The entire Fell and Abbott family seemed entirely remiss to watch Crowley go. The children tried to tempt him with Christmas cartoons, and he was nearly taken but decided to forgo the offer when remembering his promises to his own mischief-makers back at Hogwarts. Madame Tracy sent him home with a tower of leftovers that she would not allow him to refuse. Atticus gave him a heartfelt handshake and an all-too-sincere, “It was an absolute joy to meet you, Dear Boy. Please, don’t be a stranger!” The once-little Lucy Abbott promised to keep in touch and was over the moon when her favorite professor allowed her to give him a hug. 

Azira walked him out, they stopped under a charming wooden arch arbor over the cobblestone path to the driveway. 

“Anthony, I couldn’t be more sorry about Michael. I should have gotten you out of there.” 

“Nnnngh. Nah. It’s fine, Angel. It was nice other than that. Really. I’m not used to big families- of course the Colombian Heller clan is… just ridiculous in numbers, but I’ve only been there a few times over the years. You’ve got a great lot in there.”

The blonde gave a little nod of understanding and a smile that was intended more for Crowley’s comfort than sourced from his own happiness. Little jolts of electric adrenaline still jumped through his limbs and fingertips from the attack on his dearest person. The memories flooded him and he felt an overwhelming anger again, his eyes fixed somewhere over his companion’s shoulder.

“It’s not true, you know.” 

Pulled from his angry musing, Azira’s blue orbs fixed on that beautiful face again. Lines of concern creased it now. 

“Oh, my dear, how could anyone believe that about your family? It’s positively barbaric.” 

The reassurance missed by a mile, and Crowley’s face twisted in anguish, turning to fixate on something in the horizon- anything- anything other than the horror and disgust that was about to captivate his angel’s features. 

“B- be- eh- because that part _ is _ true. I’m s-sss-so sorry. If that changes things- if knowing that makes it impossible to trust or care about or be around me, if it makes you afraid of me, I can’t fault you for that. I understand. Wh- h- who would want to be friends with someone who comes from-”

“Anthony.” 

The voice was so soft, so gentle, and yet fear still sunk its claws deep into Crowley, keeping him from turning his head to meet Azira’s eyes let he be torn to shreds. A feather-light touch grasped his chin and turned it for him. Before he could protest, his glasses were carefully removed and hooked onto the front of his sweater with care. There wasn’t a cloud in those skies. They were wide open. Open for Crowley. 

“My Dearest. How could I ever fear you? Knowing you escaped that place, those people, that you so bravely and willingly face adversity for refusing to be anything like them makes me immeasurably proud of you. It makes me admire you even more.” 

Admire? Azira admired him? He was proud of him? No one had ever been proud of him before. Crowley’s amber snake eyes were wide now, fixated on Azira’s with an unmoving serpentine focus. 

“Now, tell me, what isn’t true?” 

Crowley’s mouth felt dryer than it had ever been. With slow deliberation, his head began to turn again. A gentle squeeze on his arm aided him in recalibrating his focus. His tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lips. If he wasn’t mistaken, Azira had been quite fixated on it before returning his gaze to his eyes.

“I didn’t cast the killing curse on my father. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, Crowley, of course I know that. I can’t imagine you hurting another living thing, not even a plant, for however much you like to throw threats around at yours.”

“D- do- don’t you dare say that in front of them,” Crowley hissed while narrowing his eyes. Azira felt a wave of relief and offered a genuine smile this time, heart warm and thrumming happily now that his dear friend seemed to be feeling better. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Dear Boy.” 

“Good. Well then, if you don’t mind, I have a date to get my arse kicked by several angry children on broomsticks.”

Azira laughed, but before he could say his farewells, a light seemed to go on behind Crowley’s eyes. 

“Ah, nearly forgot, your present,” he mumbled, fishing it out of his pocket. 

“You didn’t need to-” Azira started as a package wrapped in brown paper was shoved into his hands. 

“Shut it, Angel,” Crowley groaned, rolling his eyes. 

A little smile took over his angel’s features, Azira read the simple little card, and much to Crowley’s dismay, turned it over to reveal a moving photograph of a tiny red headed three year old jumping in a pile of leaves and kicking them around while wearing overly-formal clothing that wasn’t proper to play in at all. His face was not at all composed of the sharp angles it was today, but was soft and round, with cheeks begging to be squeezed when he smiled. Bright amber eyes gleamed at the camera.

“You must have gotten in trouble,” he mentioned, a gigantic smile on his face as he looked down at the picture with adoring eyes. 

“Hell broke loose.”

He could have looked at the photo all day, but aware that Crowley was on a schedule, brought himself to pull the twine string around the package, opening it to find a book with a title in Spanish and a journal tucked behind it, nearly as thick. Expertise would allow him to estimate the tome to be around two hundred years old, likely very expensive in its day. It was leatherbound, and the pages were a bit ragged, but in all other aspects it seemed well taken care of. Curiosity pulled at the edges of his mind, and he flipped through the book with care, quickly realizing that its entirety was in Spanish. Inquisitive eyes rose to search Crowley’s. 

“It’s a book of prophecies,” he mumbled sheepishly, “Figured your collection was a bit Euro-centric. Found this one in Guatemala when I was there for research last spring. Some wacky bloke that claimed the ancient Mayans were talking to him in his dreams, helping him form prophecies. He did get some of them right.” 

He pretended to be inconvenienced when Azira’s eyes grew watery. The librarian looked fondly down at the book, then carded through the journal, filled with Crowley’s familiar chicken scratch. In awe, he realized it was filled front to back with several possible translations for each prophecy and related cultural notes. His heart fluttered in his chest. This had to take hours- no, weeks. When had Crowley even found the time to do this? 

“Crowley- I can’t thank you enough. I love this. Truly.” 

“Don’t thank me. Happy Christmas, Azira.” 

As Azira tried to look upwards to stop the tears, he froze in place, fixated on what he’d found above their heads. Crowley marveled at what his friend could be thinking for his face to turn that shade of pink. It was rather cold out, he supposed.

“Oh Dear.” 

Curiosity overwhelming him, Crowley followed his gaze upwards to a sprig of mistletoe above them, on the awning, wrapped in a red ribbon. 

“Ah. Don’t worry, just mistletoe. It’s not dangerous or anything. Unless you’re allergic, I guess.” 

“No, no, of course not. I know that. It’s just that there’s a Muggle tradition involving mistletoe, and… well... “

“A tradi-,” he started to ask, but was stopped short as Azira grabbed hold of the scarf around his neck, yanked him downwards, and pressed his (warm, soft, how were they that soft?) lips to the corner of Crowley’s open mouth. 

“Happy Christmas, Crowley,” Azira rushed out, scurrying back up the walk and into the cottage. 

Crowley stood alone under the arbor, staring stupidly up at the plant above him. His brain short circuited in its attempts to sort out what had just happened. His fingers, nails painted with a sparkling red polish, raised to touch the place where he’d been blessed. The flesh there tingled. If the man could feel anything other than euphoria, he might fear that his heart would explode or his legs would give out. 

A kiss. It had been a kiss. Sloppy. Misplaced. Mid-speech. The best thing that had ever happened to Crowley in his entire life. Azira Fell had _ kissed _him. 

A Happy Christmas, indeed. 

What the Hell kind of tradition was that? 

* * *

“Angel!” Crowley shouted, using all their focus to keep their wave casual and their blush hidden. They’d since been educated on the strange tradition that they’d been exposed to on Christmas Day, but this was their first time seeing their friend since the incident. 

The blonde was bundled up in comfortable layers of knit muggle clothing, standing on Anathema’s cottage porch with a lost expression on his face. 

“Oh! Hello, Dear-,” he stopped to survey Crowley, who was wearing a red knit turtleneck over tight pants and under a shimmery silver cloak they’d found quite appropriate for the holiday. Azira was delighted to see they’d taken a hair-growth potion, and their curls now fell shoulder length, though half the locks were pulled back. Likely, he would have been overcome with concern had Crowley not taken time to cover the dark shadows beneath their eyes with makeup and brighten up their complexion. They hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks, too busy obsessing over the dark events becoming more commonplace every day, and it was starting to affect their mental comprehension and health.

“They, today.”

“Right. Hello, my dear,” Azira adjusted accordingly, offering a warm smile, “I’m not sure Anathema’s home. I’ve been out here for quite some time.”

Crowley spared a quick glance about the yard, finding a monstrosity of machinery on the drive that read ‘Dick Turpin’ in awkward lettering on the back. 

“Well, someone’s here. Let me try.” 

Azira stepped back, gesturing for Crowley to have a go at the door. The redhead cleared their throat, stepping up to the door and banging on it without mercy before yelling in a sharp tone, “Oy! Anathema! Open up! It’s bloody cold out here!” 

The blonde raised his eyebrows, entertained by the method. Crowley always did have a manner of handling things that was impossible to ignore. The sound of rushing feet was heard behind the door. Several seconds passed before it was swung open, revealing a panting and flushed Anathema rushing to fix her hair. 

“Hey, babe, sorry for the wait I was-”

“Snogging?” Crowley grinned.

“_ Distracted _,” she countered with a guilty pout, leaning in to kiss her friend’s cheek before shifting to the side to let them in, “Oh, and Azira’s here too! Glad you found the place alright.” 

“It really is quite charming,” the librarian hummed as he looked around the unfamiliar entry way for the first time. It was filled with little paranormal nick nacks and supernatural articles and imagery. A smell of spices and herbs filled the air. Altogether, it was exactly what he would expect of Anathema’s home. He noticed a spindly figure approaching from the end of the hallway, “Oh! Hello there, Newt. How are you doing, Dear Boy?”

“Just fine,” Newt offered an awkward smile that screamed his guilt, “Nice to see you again. That’s a very pretty… erm… robe? You have there, Crowley.” 

“Thanks,” Crowley remarked without a care in the world until Azira gave them a pointed look. Ah. Right. Muggle. They cleared their throat, “A- ahh- eh- always have a flare for the dramatic on holidays, you know? It’s fun.” 

Newt didn’t know, but he nodded and gave a warm grin anyway. Even standing there in a glittery cloak, something about Crowley intimidated Newt beyond belief. Perhaps it was the glasses?

“Bit dark for sunglasses, isn’t it?” he asked, leaning forward to peak out the frosted window-pane and up at the night time sky outside.

“Agh. My eyes,” Crowley threw the noncommittal explanation out there with a shrug, following Anathema as she beckoned them into the kitchen. They were relieved to be spared of any further convincing that they were a normal Muggle with a standard disposition. Azira and Newt were left safely chattering in the hallway. Anthony hopped up onto a counter to make themself comfortable, swinging one long dangling leg. “What’s up, Lady? Doesn’t look like anything needs helping with. Or like you have anything at all.” 

“I lost track of time,” she retorted, a distinct expression of annoyance on her face, “So I’m going to take Azira and go grab some wine and food.”

The look on her friend’s face betrayed no emotion, and sometimes she wished she could see them blink behind those glasses so it didn’t appear quite so much like she was conversing with a statue. Finally they wondered aloud, “Why not all of us? Why just Azira?”

“Well, I just thought you should spend time with Newt, get to know him…,” she trailed off. She wasn’t anxious. Anathema Device didn’t get _ anxious _ . She kept her cool. Always. But a simple observation would find she _ was _ wringing her hands. 

“Why?” Crowley repeated.

“Well… just because…”

“Because you _ love him? _”

“Well, I don’t know. I think so, and--”

Realization dawned on Crowley’s face, and their heart thrummed in their chest. A teasing grin creeped onto their lips, though the warmth they were feeling thwarted the mischief, “and because you love me? And you want us to get on?” 

“Well, I don’t have a lot of _ family _ here in the UK, and--”

Before she got much further, her friend was cooing over her and tickling her mercilessly, teasing, “Awwww you love your big sibling, Crowley!” 

“Oh, shut up, God forbid someone _ hears _ you,” she laughed, slapping the hands away and giving them a playful little thwack on the forehead for good measure. 

“You know,” she said, wishing to embarrass them in turn, “It’s tradition to kiss on New Years. Maybe you can sell that to Azira and get a _ second _ kiss. More Azira-action than you’ve gotten in twenty-five years.” 

“_ Shhhhh _ ,” Crowley hissed, looking over their shoulder until satisfied they heard the Wizard and Muggle still talking, “Well, I’d hate to be _ greedy _.” 

“Would you?”

“No. Not at all,” the Herbologist admitted with a cheeky grin. 

Not soon after, Anathema and Azira were out the door, and Anthony and Newt were sharing an awkward silence in the living room. If not for the fact that they’d just discussed the importance of it with their friend, Crowley would have checked out immediately and found a book or a magazine to hold their interest. 

“So, ehm… you like your job, Crowley?” 

This would be painful.

“Oh, yeah. Little devils are great. How about you? Like your job?” they asked. 

“Not really. The thing is I’ve grown quite fond of the old man who’s employed me, and I’m scared he’ll be lonely if I leave.” 

“You find someone else to take care of him and get on with your own life. Otherwise, years will have passed and you’ll have done nothing with it,” Crowley warned, surprising themself with the offer of what might appear as concern. They weren’t invested. Not really. But they were familiar with the dangers of putting one’s life on hold to take care of another. 

“Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s just that I only really have interest or knowledge in working with computers and I’m… well… “

“Cursed. You mentioned. I know the feeling.” The joke was lost on Newt, who furrowed his brows a bit in confusion. 

“Right,” Newt responded, not sounding quite sure of what to say in its stead. 

Several beats of awkward silence passed. Crowley was draped out on the couch, and rose a single eyebrow over their glasses as they watched Newt squirm.

“Shall I turn on the telly? Get ready for the New Years Fireworks on BBC?” 

“Ah, yeah. Right. Good. Stellar idea, that,” the redhead offered noncommittally, not quite sure what Newt was referring to. But they liked telly. And they liked explosives even more. 

“Oh, wait, aren’t you Neo-Luddite? If you’re uncomfortable with it-,” Newt began to fuss, and Crowley found themself liking him a bit more. 

“Not at all. Just didn’t grow up with one. I watch it at Azira’s, sometimes. I like it.” 

“Right!” It was silent for a while as Newt fished around behind the television set, marveling a muffled, “Huh! Anathema hasn’t even set up the cable.” 

Crowley was not an expert, but as far as they were concerned, Newt had more likely than not done something horribly wrong, as the backside of the telly erupted into flames. He jumped back with a yelp, his own sweater on fire. 

Reacting on instinct, Crowley whipped their wand out from where it had been hidden in their robes, swishing it at the tapestry hanging behind the telly. 

_ “Wingardium Leviosa,” _ he chanted, pulling the tapestry towards him and releasing it to fall onto the flaming electronics, quickly extinguishing the danger. 

_ “Aquamenti” _

A jet of water expelled from the tip of his wand, and Newt squirmed under the impact of water, letting out blubbering cries. Once the display was over. The man stood, wet as a mop, shaking, back up against the wall, and eyes huge as they fixated on Crowley, “What- That- _ How did you do that?” _

“What?” Crowley asked, sleep-deprived brain taking an extra few moments to process. Oh. He’d just done magic. In front of a Muggle. How the hell was he gonna fix this one, “D- don- duh- eh. Don’t worry about it. I’ll obliviate you and you won’t even have to think on it.” 

_ “Obliviate me?” _ Newt repeated, terror dripping in his voice, “Stay away! I’m warning you!” He made a quick attempt to sprint down the hallway, past the magic-user.

“Aww, shit,” they mumbled, pointing their wand at Newt, _ “Locomotor Mortis” _.

The man’s legs snapped together, and Crowley’s long set quickly carried them to his side, “Would you calm down? I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t make this a thing.” 

“A _ thing? _” Newt repeated incredulously, feeling around for the glasses that had clattered to the ground, “I can’t even explain what you’re doing!” 

The pure-blood groaned. This is why they didn’t spend time with Muggles. They plucked the black frames off the hardwood flooring, offering them to Newt.

“...Thank you,” the man said, sounding unsure.

“No problem,” Crowley replied, unceremoniously grabbing him under the arms and dragging him back into the living room to situate him on a couch. Their wand was pointed at Newt’s chest, earning a terrified look from the man as all the blood drained from his face. _ “Tergeo,” _ suddenly, the sweater was completely dry.

Again, Newt sounded a little, “Thank you,” that sounded even more dazed and unsure than the first. 

The panic returned to his features in full force as Crowley pointed the strange, immaculately carved wooden stick at his face. The familiar creak of the door opening sounded not a moment later.

“Anathema! Anathema help me! He’s going to obliviate me!” Newt cried. 

“Anthony!” Anathema yelled, looking much more irritated than anything else (much to Newt’s confusion) as she stormed into the room and flung off her coat, “What did you do!” 

“Magic, obviously.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Azira sighed, as if really saying, ‘what are we going to do with you?’

“Look. _ He _ set the room- and _ himself _ \- on fire. I put it out. So I think what you _ mean _ is, ‘thanks, Crowley, for not letting my house and boyfriend burn to smithereens’. Why he thinks I would hurt him after saving his arse is beyond me.” 

“I… guess that’s true,” Newt admitted with a sheepish look on his face, despite himself. His eyes shifted between the three in the room, “but Anathema, it was the strangest thing. He didn’t use his hands at all. Just pointed that stick at things and… and _ things _ happened.” 

“They,” the witch corrected.

“Right, they did. Sorry,” he mumbled, feeling like he’d stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone with how casually everyone else seemed to be handling this, “Doesn’t this seem _ strange _ to you?” 

The woman shifted her dark tresses behind her shoulders, looking between Azira and Crowley. The three appeared to be having a silent conversation. It wasn’t until several seconds later, when Azira gave a sympathetic smile and held his hands up in some unknown gesture and Crowley raised their shoulders in a defeated shrug that the witch finally looked back at Newt.

“Don’t tell me you don’t believe me?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I do,” she rushed out, sitting next to him with a nervous smile that didn’t seem too sincere at all, “I just. Have some news for you. It could be good news, really.” 

“What is it, Ana?” Those grey eyes scanned her face with such eagerness. Her heart beat impossibly hard in her chest. When she swallowed, it felt as if all the anxiety that went with it would burst back up at any moment and explode all over her boyfriend. 

“You’ve found yourself a witch.” 

He looked at her with a blank expression, eyes still searching hers with a desperate need for further explanation.

Slowly, with all the hesitation in the world, she drew her own wand, directing it at Newt’s legs. He watched her, wide eyes unwavering. 

_ “Finite,” _ she said softly, and his legs were freed from their binding. Her dark eyes examined every inch of his pale face, and she felt immense relief when she raised her shaking hand to fix his glasses and he did not pull away. Instead, he took her hand in his own, waiting. Still waiting. 

“I’m a witch, Newt. Azira and Crowley, too. That’s why you can’t find information about the school we teach at. It’s a Wizarding school. Our society is a small and secret one. It exists in all the places you pass and don’t spare a second thought about. It’s strange and different, but it’s also so mundane and average you don’t see it at all. None of your kind do.” 

A long pause passed through the room as all three magical inhabitants awaited his response with bated breath.

“Right,” he said, “And I’m not dreaming right now?” 

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well then,” he said, his struggle for words a visible one, “Count me down as bewitched.” 

The smile on his mouth was a squiggly, awkward little one, but the squeeze on Anathema’s hand showed all the intent he meant by it. Acceptance, or the forward movement in that direction.

“Oh Newt!” she exclaimed, little tears welling up in her eyes as she threw her arms around him. Crowley heard tiny sniffles next to them and turned to find Azira crying as well.

“Really, Angel?” they asked incredulously. 

“What? It’s really very sweet,” his angel said defensively, wiping a tear away with a finger. The pure-blood rolled their eyes and then grinned despite themself, glad to find they were not overstepping bounds as they rested a reassuring hand on Azira’s back.

“Well then, if he’s fine with that, I _ did _ get some bloody brilliant fireworks from George today. Could be fun,” they tempted with waggling eyebrows. Anathema looked to Newt to gauge his comfort with the idea. 

“You mean, like, magical fireworks?”

“I do mean that.”

“I think I’d love to see that,” he said in child-like wonder.

And so he spent the rest of the night radiating a similar energy. They drank (far too much), got chased by fireworks that turned into dragons, indulged his millions of questions about the wizarding world, and counted down together by the fireplace, glasses of champagne firmly in hand. 

“Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” the room exploded with excited voices shouting in tandem. 

Anathema grabbed her beloved’s face and nearly mauled him. Azira laughed. Crowley gathered all the courage they could muster, blood burning as it coursed through their veins, and surged forward to place a sloppy, anxious kiss to his angel’s impossibly soft cheek. He awaited the reaction in terror. First was a look of surprise, but it quickly melted into something much softer, and then a smile.

“Happy New Year, Dearest,” Azira said, taking Crowley’s hand and squeezing it.

“Happy New Year, Angel,” Crowley managed back, a weak smile on their face as their heart melted inside their chest. A soft clink sounded as the pair knocked their glasses together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so long, I got caught up in all the fluff <3 Things are about to take an angsty turn, so I hope you enjoyed all the comfort (and smooches ;P <3) 
> 
> It might be a couple weeks before I post the next chapter, as I've had a very major and tragic life event take place just a few days ago, but I promise I'm far too invested in this fic to quit now. Thank you, as always, for all the comments <3. I love nothing more than seeing what you guys liked, and it really encourages me to keep writing! 
> 
> Follow or yell at me @get_wrexed on twitter and/or at GetWrexed on tumblr!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's wrong with Crowley. He's subject to a family reunion he would much rather sit out on. Azira finally gets a little bit of honesty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There's a couple objective depictions of anxiety attacks in this chapter.

As the new year found itself beginning at Hogwarts, students and teachers alike fell back into the rhythms of academic life. Despite the return of consistent routines, very little felt as it should be. A thick cloud of tension and anxiety hung low over the school. Students were on edge. Professors’ patience ran short. None of the castle’s inhabitants were quite so out of sorts as Crowley. 

Or at least, that’s what Azira and Anathema had been led to believe. Despite the new semester having been in session for a full school-week, neither of them had seen hide nor hair of their friend- not for meals, regular chats, or even night-caps. Professor Fell had, however, heard an inordinate amount of muttering amongst students in the library concerning the Herbology Professor. He’d heard his typical humor and wit had all but vanished. He’d learned that Herbology class had turned from its typical exciting daring into writing droll summaries of textbook chapters, and that said summaries received scathing grades. Most concerning of all, he’d witnessed more than one student crying or withholding tears when reflecting on how cold and volatile their favorite professor had become so suddenly. 

Crowley’s behavior had taken wild leaps before, but never so severely and never for more than a day or so. Azira was inclined to believe his companion was simply feeling unwell. He’d tried to visit, but the door of the Herbologist’s office was locked tight, and knocking yielded no results. Concern plagued deeper and deeper into his heart every day this happened, and he found himself expanding his efforts. The librarian would venture through the greenhouses and even go so far as to chase down Crowley’s favorite students to inquire after him. They seemed only to share his troubles. 

It wasn’t until Saturday morning, when Azira was being cornered in the staff room by a particular domineering Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, that the missing figure would finally emerge from the shadows.

“We’re running out of patience, Azira,” Gabriel warned, “No report is unacceptable.”

“He’s been _ missing _, Gabriel,” the shorter wizard pleaded, voice barely above a whisper as he wrung his hands, “He’s shut me out. I can’t report on what I don’t know.”

“Then find a way back in.”

The solution was presented as if it were the simplest in the world, and despite that contrived smile that reserved what seemed to be eternal occupancy upon his face, there was a threat within those cold blue eyes. 

“Oy, _ Fuckbody _,” snapped a voice that Azira had been missing for what felt to be much longer than a couple of weeks. The volume of it was loud, the timbre of it was low and growling, and the emotion behind it was dripping with fury, but it was missed nonetheless. His timing couldn’t be better, either. Azira wondered if Crowley had a sense about when his old bully was back at it again. 

The slightly heavy-set man leaned around the fit figure blocking him from the voice, and saw Crowley storming forth on a warpath towards Gabe. He looked awful- not in a way that repulsed Azira, but in a way that worried him down to his core. The redhead wasn’t simply _ thin _, he looked as if he hadn’t eaten at all since he’d last been seen. Dark circles were visible even under his glasses, and his face looked gaunt and pale. It appeared as if an attempt with makeup had been made, but no amount of concealer could possibly hide his exhaustion.

Azira’s instincts served him well, as he stepped forward and held up his hand to Crowley’s chest to block him from his very clear intentions of grabbing the much more dangerous man. The tall wizard paced back and forth, permitting the obstacle but not acknowledging him as he stuck his finger in the face of the colleague he so despised. 

“Tell your little fucking _ monsters _ to keep their handsssss off my kids!” he snarled through gritted teeth. His chest worked hard to keep his breathing even. His nose was wrinkled and his teeth bared. That sharp jaw was clenched shut and pulsating with anger. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor Crowley,” Gabriel said with unwavering calmness, raising his eyebrows in an amusement he knew would serve to rile his enemy up even further. 

“_ Your _ brat, Primrose, sent _ my _ quidditch captain, Bakshi, flying off her broom with the expulso curse. Just taught the seventh years that, didn’t you? Didn’t bother to teach them to be fucking responsible with it? Funny thing is, it was our practice day on the field. Word is _ you _ told him to get my kids off the field by any means necessary and the little shit can’t take no for an answer.” 

A genuine look of delight took over Goodbody’s features, “A spell then? Sounds like no one put their hands on anyone.”

“You fucking--,” Crowley began, surging forward only to be easily (too easily, Azira fussed) pushed back towards the door by his increasingly anxious companion. 

“Alright, Crowley, I’m sure Gabriel will handle this,” he reassured, powering through Crowley’s swears and swatting the pure-blood’s hand away every time it reached for his wand. 

“You better, Goodbody! Or I fucking will!” he shouted before the Azira shut the door between him and his target. 

The Muggle-born took a second to rest his forehead on the door, breathing a sigh of relief. That had been far too close. Crowley was rarely, if ever, that reckless. Sure, it was admirable that he was so protective over his Hufflepuffs, but to forgo all common sense and pick a fight with a former auror when he couldn’t even bare to wield a wand against another person was absolute stupidity.

“Crowley-,” he began, before turning and realizing the man had stalked half-way down the hallway. 

“Crowley!” he repeated at a shout, rushing into a run to catch up, “Where in Heaven’s name have you been?”

If he didn’t know better, he’d think his friend had cast a silencing charm around himself, as he didn’t even spare a glance in Azira’s direction. The saunter did not slow. 

“I’ve been worried, you know. Did something happen?” 

Still no response. 

His patience shrinking and his concern growing, Azira decided that requests for attention would not work here, but Crowley did always respond quite promptly to commands. The blonde reached out to grab a spindly forearm, voice dripping with urgency, “Crowley, please.”

On contact, Azira’s panic reached an all time high as his friend cried out and snatched his arm to his chest as if he’d been burned by the touch. Finally, he was turned towards Azira, whose blue eyes were desperately searching his face for an answer.

“Are you alright?” he asked in a frightened whisper. 

A few emotions flashed across the face made up of sharp angles before it settled on a standoffish look of spite. Azira had seen it many times. It wasn’t real. It was a deceptive defense mechanism, like frogs that boasted bright colors to pretend they were poisonous. 

“I”m f- fi- f- fine. Leave me be and m-- mmm- mind your own damn business, would you, Azira?” 

He fled yet again, and this time his friend let him go, remaining alone in the hallway with an expression crossed between injured and worried. He couldn’t remember the last time his first name had come out of Anthony’s mouth in anger. In fact, he didn’t believe it had ever happened. No- it wasn’t right to be hurt over this. Crowley was lashing out, causing pain to avert attention away from his own. An overwhelming urge took hold of Azira to unveil whatever unsavory burden his friend was carrying all by his lonesome. He’d have to be mindful, discreet, _ careful _, as if capturing a wounded animal to nurse it back to health. Of course in this scenario Crowley was the wounded animal, and like one, his guard would be higher and more sensitive than ever. 

* * *

Much to the relief of his companions, guilt over his earlier behavior drove Crowley to accept the invitation that had been stuck to his door to gather in Anathema’s office that evening. The three friends sat in the comfortable room, stacked high with all manners of divination tools and meticulously organized books and cauldrons, grading their backlogs of winter break assignments. 

Attempts at conversation had been made more than once, however each one had been shot down by some snide comment on Anthony’s part. The room slipped back into an uncomfortable silence each time. Anathema and Azira communicated purely through exchanges of expressions, carefully deliberating how to navigate this curious situation without setting Crowley off further. 

“So…,” Anathema hesitated, feeling very much like she was tiptoeing around broken glass. Perhaps some of their familiar banter would coax him back into his usual disposition she hoped before continuing, “Next Quidditch match for both of us is against each other. Hope your team’s ready.” 

“Who fucking cares about a bloody Quidditch match? School could be burnt to the ground by then,” her companion spat, earning looks of shock from his company. Neither of them could imagine even an alternate universe in which the Quidditch fanatic dismissed the sport altogether.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Azira offered in a gentle understanding, “You shouldn’t, Hogwarts is the safest place on earth.” 

“Is it? Because times are looking awfully similar to when there was a literal battle here and my life turned to absolute shit.” 

A tense silence took control of the room, and even from behind his glasses, Crowley’s eyes bore into his companions, daring them to have the audacity to pretend they knew what to say. Azira’s heart cracked right down the middle. Part of him wanted to cry out of sympathy for his friend, another part wanted to cry out of relief. He knew how deeply that battle had scarred the life of his dearest person. He knew it affected him to this day. It brought profuse solace to see him finally talking about the emotional baggage that haunted him. 

Anathema finally broke the silence with a reassurance, “I can’t imagine, Crowley, truly. Of course you would be afraid.” 

The redhead let out a cold, joyless bark of a laugh, “Afraid? I’m not afraid. I’m just aware of what’s going on. Something that everyone else- that _ you _ seem hellbent on remaining ignorant of. Last time there was only one side that wanted war, and they got it. Now, there are two willing opponents. What do you think is going to happen?” 

The witch took a long, steady breath, closing her warm brown eyes for a moment before opening them back up for her friend of six years. After a prolonged moment of suffering Crowley’s expectant glare, she found words to offer.

“There’s not two sides. There’s three. We’re on our side. The side that will fight for peace and ensure those who threaten it don’t roam free, and we outnumber the others by a landslide.” 

“D-du-don’t you understand? They _ do _roam free! Hell, they’re in the Ministry! They work in this fucking school! They run the underworld of Wizarding society! Since when, in the history of our corrupt bloody government, does the voice of the many change shite when faced with the decisions and actions of the few in power?”

Azira decided it was perhaps time to contribute. He had been waiting thus far, radiating a supportive energy and wielding an open heart towards his troubled friend. 

“Anthony,” he began with care, deeply disheartened by his friend’s belligerent compulsion to see only doom in the future, “We need to stick together right now, stay on guard and look out for trouble. We need to keep each other updated.” 

“Oh, is that what we’re accomplishing by grading these fucking papers? That will keep our students from being murdered by people who hate them simply for having the gall to exist? And how about you, Azira? You’ve been working on the inside for Gabriel and Michael’s little hate-group for months now and still don’t know a damned thing about them, and yet when they say jump you ask how high. Is that how we’re going to survive this? Playing into their hands like a rigged game of cards and accepting ignorance?” 

Azira hardly had time to display the hurt and guilt the accusation yielded before Anathema put a protective hand on his arm. 

“You’re the one that told him to go along with it, Crowley. Don’t project your frustration onto him.”

The wizard remained silent, looking hard at the pair across him before looking down at his parchment. Finally he spoke, sounding much more unsure and less aggressive than he had a moment ago, “I just don’t want to sit by and do nothing just to find us on opposite sides of a battlefield. I can’t do that. Not again. I have to figure this out. I’m wasting time.”

“We would never end up on opposite sides,” the blonde reassured, trying to disguise the pain in his voice that this person who loved him so much and knew him so well would even worry about such a thing.

“Azira’s right. We will figure this out. Together,” Anathema said with a firm assuredness.

“No. We won’t. I have to do this alone,” Crowley combatted. He seemed to experience a recollection, and his defiance and aggression returned in full force. 

“You can’t stop a war alone. But if we stand by each other, we’ll be alright.” 

“I’m going to assume that’s a guess. After all, I’ve learned not to expect any accurate predictions from the world’s shittiest Seer unless it’s what’s for lunch. Even then you’re only right- what? Twenty percent of the time?” 

“What the actual fuck, Crowley?” Anathema growled, sympathy gone in a moment, “Don’t be a fucking prick.” 

“Try asking the sky not to be blue next,” Crowley retorted, appearing unaffected by her hurt reaction. He threw his arms up and to his side in a gesture of accepting the insult, the sleeves of his robes falling down to his elbows and revealing, unbeknownst to him, several deep gouges marring his long, thin arms, “A fucking prick. That’s what I am. You both knew it deep down. Sorry to disappoint.” 

Both pairs of eyes fixed on the wounds, and gasps were released in synchrony. For one terrifying moment, Azira started slipping downwards into a pit of despair at the idea that these were self-inflicted injuries. However, there were too many, too deep, and too varying of locations. These were _ defensive _ wounds. Crowley had been _ attacked _. 

“My dear, what’s happened to you?” he rushed out in a panic, reaching out for his beloved’s hand so he might examine his arms more closely. 

Crowley looked down at his arms, yanked his sleeves back down, and smacked Azira’s hand away with an abrupt desperation for secrecy. 

“Don’t touch me,” he said with an icy chill in his voice, “Didn’t I tell you to mind your own b- bu- b- business?” 

He stood before either of his companions could reply, snatching his belongings off Anathema’s desk. Once he made his way to the door, he hissed out one last offense before slamming the door, “The both of you would do well to _ fuck off _.” 

Again, the room fell into silence, before Azira finally turned to his friend with teary eyes and a lost expression. She looked after Crowley, as if seeing something her companion could not.

“His aura is off.” 

“What do you mean, can you tell what’s wrong with him?” Azira asked, desperate for an explanation.

“It’s almost like it’s… being suffocated. Snuffed out.”

“By what?”

“Shadows.”

“What shadows?”

“Hard to say…,” she sighed, “Shadows of his heart. Of his past.” 

* * *

Knockturn Alley was in its typical fine, dark, gritty, grimy form the next day. The sky was barely visible through the tall urban canopies, but the little that gleamed through hung low and dark. Crowley blended perfectly into the crowds of shady figures with his dark robes and hidden eyes. The last time he’d been here had been to accompany Azira in his search for (of course) old, rare books that the pure-blood hardly thought to be worth the trouble, but as always he had been too weak to turn down the object of his affections. He’d been so cute, telling Crowley how he couldn’t possibly go alone, that it was too ‘spooky’. Of course Crowley had gone with. He’d been dragged through these dark alleys as far back as he could remember. It was just another place for him. 

The redhead shook his head, attempting to rid himself of the memories and focus on the task at hand- finding a new time-turner. The end days were coming. Crowley hadn’t sorted out any answers. He hadn’t secured a way to protect what was dear to him- to stop the horrors of the past from recurring.

He needed more time. He needed to perfect the time-stopping spell. He required a time-turner to satisfy both those needs. 

Borgin and Burkes was the place to go. The Herbologist marched past the litany of disturbing goods, taking care not to touch anything after a few upsetting mishaps as a child. It took nearly a half hour to convince the shady shopkeep to budge and admit he did, indeed, have one of the illegal objects in stock. It took yet another to haggle him down to a price within Crowley’s meager savings, of which the man stole nearly all of. 

As he exited the shop, time-turner safely tucked away in the inner chest pocket of his robes, he tried to recollect all the discoveries of time magic he’d made thus far. Upon returning his things, the Ministry had conveniently “misplaced” all his notes and books concerning time-magic. He’d have to find some of the banned books while here too. 

Mid-pondering, he found himself being manhandled by two large figures, one on each side. He hissed in pain at the harsh grips on his freshly wounded arms. The mysterious assaulters seemed to have no trouble at all hoisting him up between them and dragging him into a dark, filthy pub hidden in a nearby alleyway. 

“Oi what the fuck!” he growled, struggling to no avail before being sternly shoved down into a rickety wooden chair. 

“Cousin Anthony,” crooned an emotionless voice across the table. He raised his head, trying to keep the feeling of dread penetrating his heart from reflecting itself on his face as he immediately identified the small figure.

“Cousin Beelzebub,” he acknowledged coldly, briefly turning to examine the faces of his attackers and releasing a laugh of disbelief upon identifying them, “Hastur and Ligur. Twenty years later and you’re still too mindless to be anything but henchmen?” 

“You’ve got some nerve-” 

Hastur snatched a handful of long red hair with a merciless grip. 

“Usually I’m into getting my hair pulled. I’m not too picky, but unwashed, stupid, and filthy _ really _ isn’t my type,” Crowley growled through the pain. 

“Think you’re smart, do you?”

Hastur wound up a fist, but yielded to release his victim when Beelzebub lazily waved a hand in dismissal. The two took a step back, giving their leader the privacy they wished for.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Crowley asked. The bitterness could practically be tasted in the air. Refusing to portray the fear he felt, he leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet onto the corner of the table and rocking onto the back two legs.

“We’re family. Do I need a reason?” his cousin asked.

“You’ve never taken the trouble before,” the Herbologist argued, surveying the room behind his glasses in search of any potential allies. Of course there were none. This was a Death Eater hotspot. 

“Ah. You got me. Always so clever, you. Which is why I need your help.”

“Why in Satan’s name would I help you?” Crowley asked, skepticism etched into both his face and voice.

“Well. You were at that lovely Yule Ball, weren’t you? Family helps each other. Now wouldn’t be an ideal time to be pegged as a blood-traitor.” 

Great. Just as he thought he’d escaped the expectations of his family. Of course there’d be repercussions for unabashedly standing with Muggle-borns when all his birth connections were staunch advocates for blood purity. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Crowley lied in a nonchalant tone, gazing through an owl perched in the corner of the bar.

Beelzebub twitched an eyebrow in amusement, the corner of their lip quirking into what was assumed to be a grin.

“You should be,” Ligur sneered from somewhere over Crowley’s left shoulder, “You’re what? Fifteen kilos? Besides, I hear you’re too cowardly to even raise a wand against another wizard.”

“And why would you want the help of a coward?” the cornered man argued, “Can’t be much help, can I? N- nnn- never been good at dueling. Rejected the Death Eater life. Cut ties to the whole community. How could you even trust me?”

The black haired presence staring him down raised the other corner of their mouth, finally offering a bone-chilling smile before humming, “You’re doing such an excellent job of proving why. You’re sneaky- aren’t you, Anthony? Good at bending ears with that silver tongue. Good at _ tempting _.”

A thick, putrid taste stuck in Crowley’s mouth that no amount of gulping could get rid of.

“And who is it I’m meant to tempt?” 

“You’re meant to find the Heir of Slytherin. To unify them with our cause.” 

Anthony felt as if a stunning spell had been cast on him as his brain stopped functioning for a few moments. The dread in his heart spread into his stomach, and all at once he felt quite sick.

“I don’t know how I can help with that. How would I find them?”

Beelzebub rested their cheek on a fist, gazing expectantly at his cousin, “Oh come on. You’ve had to put it together, with all that nonsense that happened at Hogwarts earlier this year. The heir is a student. Right under your nose. Find him and report back for further instructions. Easy as that.” 

Adam Young.

It all made sense now. Protectiveness surged through Crowley’s chest, replacing the dread. His poker face was impeccable as always, and he was suddenly very glad the tinted glass on his face hid his widened eyes. 

“I won’t do it.” 

“You _ will _,” hissed Hastur.

“Cool it, boys,” Beelzebub dismissed, “If my cousin here doesn’t wish to help, we can hardly make him. I will warn him, though, that he should expect some _ encouragement _ from us in the near future.” 

Crowley’s confidence wilted like a dying plant, and he invested all his energy in keeping his shaking hands still, clenching them into fists over his lap. 

“So, I can leave then?” 

“Of course. You’re not a prisoner.” 

“Not yet,” Ligur chortled to himself, the implications sending a chill up Crowley’s spine. 

“Right,” Crowley replied, allowing the chair to fall down to all fours as he removed his legs from the table and stood to take his leave.

“And cousin?” 

The spindly figure was halted mid-saunter and turned his head half-way to regard Beelzebub. 

“Once we change your mind- what is it the Muggles say? Don’t call us. We’ll call you.” 

Crowley took a moment to think of a retort, but couldn’t, and found himself several blocks away before his mind came back to him all at once. A rush of thoughts, fears, and realizations flooded him all at once, and he found himself ducking into an alleyway to suffer through the inevitable anxiety attack that would take hold of him and mercilessly shake him as if he were a helpless ragdoll. Unsympathetic pedestrians paid no mind as he limply clung to the wall, clutching his heart and gasping for air. Then again, he paid no mind to them either, mind unable to process anything other than the paranoia commandeering every facet of his thoughts and feelings. He was going to protect Adam’s identity. Of course. He would never yield to the desires of the Death Eaters that had corrupted his youth. And he was going to pay for it. 

* * *

Crowley took several deep breaths as he stood outside Azira’s office, holding the bottle of Vinos de Pago that he’d mentioned what had only been a month ago but felt more like eras. He wasn’t a fool. He knew what the promise Beelzebub had made meant. The Death Eaters were going to come after him. He had to stand strong in his convictions in preparation of being torn down. Before what was to come, however, he had to make amends. Originally, he’d wanted to keep Azira away- to protect him. But the idea that something could happen and his last words towards him being so cruel twisted Crowley’s heart in the most painful of ways. 

It had to be now. He might not have another chance. 

_ Stay strong, _ he told himself, _ Don’t make him panic. Pretend everything’s fine. _

With all the courage he could possibly muster, the pure-blood rounded the corner. Anxiety rose up within him as he stared at the back of that familiar blonde head of hair. He pushed the unsavory sensation right back down, forcing himself to rap his knuckles against the door frame and clear his throat. Self-loathing burned in his chest as Azira turned to view his visitor and immediately adapted an expression of upset. 

“Hey there, Angel,” Crowley managed out in a weak voice.

“Crowley,” Azira retorted in a much colder one. Little time was wasted before he turned back around to his work, pointedly directing his attention away from his friend.

The tall figure shifted uncomfortably, lifting the bottle awkwardly and clearing his throat yet again, “I uh… brought this.”

“Whatever for?” 

“Erm… I’ve been s- sss- saving it. Thought you might like to share it.” 

The librarian looked over his shoulder to give him a quick glance up and down.

"You're drunk."

"Am not."

"You've _been_ drunk."

"Have not."

“Crowley.”

“Yes?”

“Forgive me, but I can’t help but find myself to be quite confused when the last interaction we had was you so kindly requesting I ‘fuck off’. Do you recall?”

“Mmph. Ah. Yes. That,” Crowley mumbled. He took on an innocent grin despite Azira not sparing him a glance, raising his shoulders and weakly attempting to jest, “What’s the occasional ‘fuck off’ between friends?” 

Azira finally turned to look at him again, shooting a glare that stabbed the redhead straight through his chest, this time, yielding his heart silent and still for a suffocating moment.

“If this is your way of an apology, I have to request you get out of my office.” 

“Oh, c’monnnn, Angel.” 

“Out.” 

Unmistakable desperation and remorse filled Crowley immediately, and he held back the tears that were forming with the utmost fervor. 

“Azira- w-weh-wait. Please,” he begged. 

Those blue eyes were stormy as they pinned him down, waiting for an explanation. Azira’s expression was stern and unwavering. 

Crowley sighed, venturing further into the room to set the bottle down on an end table and sink onto the comfortable sofa. The complete and utter exhaustion coursing through his veins finally betrayed itself on his features. 

“I’m sorry. I am. Something’s happening to me, Angel. I think I’m losing it.” 

At last, his companion’s expression softened, and he stood, making his way to settle down next to Crowley.

“What happened, Dear Boy?” 

Anthony remained silent, picking at the stitching of the sofa upholstery.

“Cro- Anthony. I know you’re afraid to open up. But you can’t behave like that and then apologize without an explanation. I can’t accept mistreatment like that.”

“I didn’t-,” Crowley started, turning pink as his voice cracked through the emotion, “Az, I’m so sorry. I never- I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry. I hate that I hurt you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“Please, Dearest. Something happened since New Years. Please tell me what it is.” 

Crowley braved a glance up at Azira, and cursed himself as his face twisted in emotion. That endearment weakened him to his core. He shouldn’t cry- not in front of his beloved. He was supposed to be strong right now. Whatever resolve was left in that sentiment crumbled as Azira reached forward, carefully sliding the sunglasses off his face and searching his golden eyes. Those blue skies were clearing for him now. 

“W-wu-we can’t t-take Val out of the hospital any more,” he found himself admitting, as if subjected to a truth potion, and Azira’s eyes were just as potent, “Not for holidays. N-not for lunch. Not for a walk. Nothing.” 

His breathing started to become more labored as he invested everything he had into withholding tears. 

“Oh, my darling. I’m so sorry. Why is that? After all this time?”

A long pause passed, and Azira waited with a heartfelt patience, raising his hand to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“She’s been… they’ve decided she’s a danger to others.” 

Azira’s shock betrayed him. His mouth fell open and his eyebrows raised before he realized such displays would not make this process any easier for his dearest person. 

“What would make them come to that conclusion?” he found himself daring to ask.

“She attacked someone,” Crowley choked, turning his head away.

A painful understanding permeated Azira’s heart, and with the utmost gentle touch, he intertwined their fingers, looking down at the fabric covering Crowley’s wounded arms and whispering, “She attacked you.” 

“We were at home for the holidays. She had been just fine but- she was cutting vegetables with a knife and she turned around and she just--,” his companion barely managed out, turning his head away and desperately wiping his tears away before they fell, “She didn’t mean to. Sh-shh-she would never on purpose. She got confused. Thought I was- someone else.” 

“Of course you’re affected by that, Dear Boy. How could you not be? That doesn’t mean you’re losing your mind.”

“It’s not just that. How could it be? Look at everything that’s happened. It’s all the same. The Yule Ball. Adam. The war. I’m losing people I care about. I hung onto her for so long, but I can’t keep a hold of everything- of anything. I can’t _ change _ anything. I’m too weak. Twenty years later and I’m still fucking useless. Helpless. All I can do is watch. It all goes away. Everyone leaves. Everything is taken. It’s all ending and I can’t do anything- I can’t stop it- I can’t- I can’t-”

The ragged breaths became rougher, more uneven, faster, less controlled, until Crowley was gasping for air. His arms crossed and his hands desperately grasped onto the fabric of his sleeves as he slumped forward, eyes darting in every direction but not seeming to register anything before him.

“I can’t- I can’t breathe- I can’t-” 

Realization dawned on Azira’s face, and he grasped Crowley’s, gently pulling him upright. 

“Hey- hey, you. Give me your eyes. That's it- You’re alright, you hear me? You’re safe. You’re here with me. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere. Just breathe with me. In through your nose- one, two, three. Out through your mouth- one, two, three. There you are. That’s excellent. Keep going, my dear.” 

The Muggle-born had only witnessed Crowley break into an anxiety attack like this once before- the first time he realized he’d had PTSD. There’d been a trigger then, a loud bang of a crate of books crashing to the floor. Here there had been nothing, and the librarian found himself sorry to share the concern that something was indeed happening to Crowley's mental health. Several minutes passed and Anthony found himself slowly grounded with Azira’s help. By the time his breathing was even again, his shaking frame was held securely in Azira’s arms, and his face was buried into his shoulder. 

“How often has this been happening?” his angel requested with a calculated softness.

“Oh… I don’t know… since Halloween. They tapered off for a while once we discovered it was Adam, but- then the Yule Ball happened and... since then, two or three times a day.”

Azira’s face contorted in concern as he breathed into Crowley’s hair, “That often? Oh, my dear…” 

“It’s not the anxiety attacks that are the problem; it’s the flashbacks. I’m slipping, Azira. It’s all coming back. I can’t s- sss- sleep because of the night terrors. I can’t keep things straight in my head. Paranoia is taking over everything. I’m being cruel to the people I- the people I care about. I feel like I’m losing myself and I don’t know how to stop it.” 

“Crowley…,” Azira sighed, his heart breaking for this person who was so incredibly dear to him, “When was the last time you took any of your vacation days? And I don’t mean for research.”

“Dunno. Five years ago when the Psycho Sisters did their reunion tour in London?”

The librarian sighed deeply, shaking his head, “Of course you’re in such bad shape. You’re not taking care of yourself. You should take some of that time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so proud of the way you handle living here in this place that holds such mixed memories for you, but if you’re being triggered so often, perhaps it would be good to get away for a while. Do something you enjoy.”

“No,” Crowley answered shortly, pulling back to look Azira in the face with a set firmness. 

“Why ever not, dear boy?” Azira asked, the sadness in his voice obvious despite how deeply he attempted to bury it.

“If I have such nightmares about what I failed to do when I _ was _ here, I can’t- I can’t imagine how much I’d hate myself if something were to happen if I wasn’t here. I have to stay. I have to be here.” 

Azira searched those eyes so carefully, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest as he witnessed the light of the stars within them fading away. 

“Okay,” he yielded, “But Crowley. If there’s something I can do- please. Please, just ask.” 

They both knew the request was futile. Crowley couldn’t- wouldn’t burden his angel with such darkness. He wouldn’t saddle him with the hideous truth of the past that tormented him into the present. But he gave a weak smile anyway, searching that soft, beautiful face as his lips formed the lie as naturally as he breathed air.

“Okay, Angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I did warn you angst was coming! Poor Crowley's not looking too good, is he? Will he finally ask for help before he slips too far? Probably not- it is Crowley after all. 
> 
> Thank you guys SO MUCH for being so kind and patient with me this last month, especially those of you that sent well-wishes <3. It's been a really tough adjustment, and the holidays make grieving all the more difficult. 
> 
> The good news is I graduated University this week (yaaayyyy!) so I now have much more time! I'm hoping to update more often over holiday, maybe even a couple times a week ;P Let's get Crowley out of this rut! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for the kudos and comments, I love seeing what you guys think!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Death Eaters make good on their promise to forward Crowley some 'encouragement' to submit to their requests. Azira and Anathema are left to pick up the pieces. In his weakened state, Crowley opens up to Azira. The two have a roundabout discussion about what they are to each other. Tensions raise and wounds reveal themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!! CW !!!!!!!!!!!  
PTSD Trigger, alcoholism, and a graphic mental breakdown. 
> 
> For those of you who (understandably) don't want to read through any or all of that content, I'll post a Chapter summary in the footnotes.

“Professor Crowley?” 

The professor in question raised his head from his parchment to find the thirty or so seventh years gazing at him in expectancy. From the looks of concern traced upon most of their faces, this wasn’t the first attempt to pull him from his thoughts. 

“Hm?”

“We’re done pickling the fluxweed. Watered and repotted them, put them back,” informed one Ravenclaw boy, Clyde Ganders, “What next?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, eyes just as vacant as his voice, “that’s all. You can go.” 

The response to this was mixed- a few whooping and all but skipping out of the room. The remainder exchanged worried glances between one another and Crowley, gathering their belongings with hesitation. 

“Professor Crowley? Can we borrow the snargaluffs to play a prank on our friends?” an inseparable pair of Slytherins asked. 

Their professor didn’t raise his head at all this time, eyes unfocused and directed back at the parchment again. He wasn’t really listening. Hadn’t been listening much to anything these days. 

“Nmmph. Yeah. Sure.” 

“Alright! Thanks Professor!” the boys exclaimed, giving one another an enthusiastic high five and grabbing one of the gnarled looking stumps on the way out. Thorny vines shot out from it to fight the kidnapping, reaching out helplessly to their owner as if to beg for help. Of course, Crowley remained oblivious. 

He’d been like this the last week or so. It couldn’t be handled any more- the darkness, the grief, the fear- so he separated himself from it all, turning his mind to a permanent fixture resembling radio static with the help of extraordinary amounts of alcohol. No one had been able to receive his extended attention or conversation. His silence was more alarming than his bad mood could ever be. Angry, afraid, happy, or in good humor, Crowley was a man of exuberant energy. He was void of all that, now. 

Apologies had been made to Anathema, inciting relative peace amongst the trio yet again, but Crowley’s absence carried on with a great deal of avoidance, as his friends had been hounding after him in their worried states. He didn’t want to be around them when the Death Eaters sent the ‘encouragement’ that had been promised. So instead he waited alone, every moment shrouded in a paranoid anticipation

As of right now, he was making a poor attempt to continue writing his book. Otherwise, he’d go mad circling the collection of articles and clues he’d obsessively gathered of recent activity pointing towards the inevitability of war. 

“‘The Fouquieria splendens has many advantageous properties ou engeraubelerauauau’, very well said, Mum,” jested an all too familiar voice from over his shoulder, commenting on how his quill had trailed off into messy loops down the side of the parchment mid-sentence. 

The Herbologist was pulled from his thoughts yet again, glancing up and to his side to find the hopeful face of Adhya Bakshi, his seventh year Quidditch captain. He’d taken her under his wing her first year when he’d discovered she’d been disowned by her Muggle parents for being a witch. Ever since she’d insisted on calling him ‘Mum’. An attempt had originally been made to dissuade her, but by year three he’d given up. 

“Shouldn’t you be in class, Kid?” 

Her face fell at his failure to banter back as he typically would, but only for a moment before a comforting smile lit it back up. Crowley’s heart fell a bit at the sight. Even his kids were worrying? Pretending to be strong for his sake? He wasn’t holding it together quite as well as he thought he was.

“Free period. I was wonderin’ if you were coming to Quidditch practice today. You haven’t been all term.” 

“I’m sure you’re holding up just fine.” 

“Yeah, well. Davies’ swing is turnin’ to shit and Hatch can’t keep his head in the game. He’s getting lazy. We’ll never beat Gryffindor at this rate. Don’t get me wrong- my yellin’ is great, but yours is like poetry. Really inspires that motivation, effort, and near pants-pissing a good team needs, ya know?” she asked with a grin, praying it would insite some of her parental figure’s humor. 

“Not today, Adhya.” 

Despite herself, she let out a deep sigh, giving Crowley a look that near broke his heart before she made one final attempt to smile, though it was much weaker and less enthused this time, “We miss you, Mum.” 

He gave her a long look- heaving an exhale, leaning back in his chair, crossing an ankle over a knee, and stretching his arms behind his head before giving her a forced grin, “And how the Hell can I be immune to that guilt-trip? You’re too crafty; I taught you too well. Next practice, alright?” 

The girl beamed, brown eyes gleaming as she threw her arms around him, “Yes! Thank you! I can’t wait!” 

Amber eyes watched fondly as the girl skipped out of the room. At least he wasn’t a total disappointment to everyone who mattered. His eyes trailed to the empty space amongst the organized row of snargaluffs, and his mind finally caught up with the present.

“Oh  _ fuck _ ,” he hissed, standing to begin what he was sure would be an obnoxiously exhausting journey to find the kids who had taken advantage of his mental absence, “Who the hell asked that?” 

A gusty wind assaulted Crowley as he left the refuge of his warm greenhouse. The sky was dark and grey with heavy, menacing clouds. It hadn’t snowed in a couple of weeks, but grey chunks of ice littered the ground remaining from when it last had. He walked through the grounds on the hunt for any signs of the culprits. 

Something felt amiss. Realistically, things  _ had _ been feeling amiss for a long time. But save for the howling of the wind, a suffocating silence ruled the grounds that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. A dark feeling wrenched in his gut. There was no sign of kids- or life at all, really- just bare, gnarled branches whipped around with a vengeance. 

Crowley felt pinned down by some invisible force. His pupils dilated, his heart rate elevated, and immediately each of his senses were at an all time high. Slowly, he surveyed his surroundings, turning in a careful circle as he drew his wand. It was then that he saw it. As he gazed above the castle he’d called his home for so many years, his heart dropped, all air abandoned his lungs, and he could swear the earth stopped spinning at what he beheld.

The dark mark.

When the world resumed turning, it was nearly twenty years earlier. Flashes of bright lights crackled from all sides. Screams of curses and cries of agony filled Crowley’s eardrums. He cowered as a blast whistled straight above his head. From its direction, a tall Death Eater marched straight towards him.

“Expulso!” he cried, sending the figure rocketing backwards into the madness of battle. A flash of green light burst from within the crowd, and he found himself gasping for air as he witnessed one of his classmates fall, head towards him. He bore witness as the light in their eyes faded into darkness.

A strong, calm hand gripped his wrist. Familiar shouting came from his right side. 

“We’re being outnumbered here! Quick! Towards the forest, we can flank them!” 

As Crowley turned to view his partner, he found Valencia at age eighteen, a determined look upon her face. Trapped in the rhythm of a time long gone, he found himself nodding. His legs reacted on instinct at the command, knowing full well he trusted his friend with his whole heart. 

They covered one another, grabbing each other out of the way, shooting protection spells at the last moment, throwing themselves to the ground when necessary. By the time Crowley reached the forest, he turned to find his worst fears realized- Valencia was no longer by his side. 

Amber eyes ricocheted about the horrid battlefield, but the familiar form could not be found. 

“Val?” he cried out in desperation. No response, only a Death Eater that turned their attention to him and fell, motionless from someone else’s spell before they could take another step. 

“Valencia?” Crowley tried again, despair deepening at the lack of response.

A woman shouted, but not the one he was looking for. It was coming from deep within the forest- a mangled, sickening cry of agony. 

He knew what happened next. He begged himself not to go. 

_ Come back _ , he pleaded,  _ Don’t go. This isn’t real. It can’t be. Don’t fucking go. _

But history had already been written. His mind had already lost its foothold on the present. And so he went. 

* * *

“So now that you understand the differences between these two specific chart models, how would this particular sequence of numbers differ in meaning between them?”

“The second model is based more in figures pertaining to the local environment, thus it could result in predictions that are more localized and thus more prevalent to the arithmancer,” answered fifth year Ravenclaw, Willow Jones.

“That’s exactly right! Well done Miss Jones,” Azira praised. The rest of the study group seemed to groan in tandem. 

One of the Gryffindor students, Harley Elms, slumped down in his chair, drawing random loops on his parchment with a quill as he mumbled, “Why are you even part of this group? You get everything. I’m never going to get this.”

“Now, now, Mr. Elms, chin up. It’s a brand new topic, and a difficult one at that, I might add. It took me a few weeks at least to fully understand it,” his professor reassured.

“Really?” Elms asked, hopefully.

“Really,” Azira replied with a smile. He tutored a different group for a different subject nearly every period, and a few after classes too. Crowley always marveled at his brilliance in this, as he himself claimed he didn’t remember a damned thing about any subject from school other than Herbology and a few common charms. 

“Professor Fell,” called a familiar voice from a few feet away. 

Focused blue eyes drifted away from the study group to find two little first years standing together, looking on with quite a great deal of apprehension.

“Mr. Young. Mr. Dowling. Aren’t you supposed to be in Herbology?” he asked, gentle smile still in place but brows furrowed the slightest bit in a botched attempt to convey sternness. That’d been the most difficult part of his recent appointment at Hogwarts- learning how to be strict with the children.

“Yeah, er… that’s what we wanted to talk to you about, do you have a second?” Warlock asked.

Azira’s smile faded and heavy stones of dread filled his gut. 

“Miss Jones, would you take over for me?”

The girl was absolutely brimming with pride. Her classmates seemed to have the opposite reaction at her appointment. Azira stood from the table, leading the boys out of earshot and devoting his undivided attention to them, concern knitted into his features.

“We were headed to Herbology and- well, we saw something strange…,” Warlock continued.

“Something’s wrong with Professor Crowley,” Adam intervened, forever the more direct of the two.

Azira’s heart leapt into his throat, “What do you mean, ‘wrong’?” 

“He looked afraid- confused. He cast a spell at nothin’ and then went sprinting off into the forbidden forest, shoutin’.” 

Blue eyes widened like saucers, and the librarian rested his hands on the boys’ shoulders, “Thank you. You were right to come to me. Please don’t tell anyone else about this.”

They nodded obediently. Warlock looked as if he was about to cry.

“Professor Fell, is Professor Crowley gonna be alright?” he asked, voice wavering.

“Of course he is,” their Professor affirmed, though in his heart he was hardly as sure. 

Azira wasted no time in gathering Anathema, who assigned one of her fifth year prefects to supervise the rest of the class period. The two friends all but sprinted to the forest, waiting until they were safely within it to begin crying out their friend’s name. Anathema paused, reaching down to dig through the scattered leaves on the ground and holding up Crowley’s glasses to Azira. They traded panicked glances.

“He can’t have gone far, right?” Anathema asked with hope in her voice, more to herself than to Azira.

“I’m not sure. Who knows what he’s thinking,” Azira responded, guilt emanating physical pain throughout his chest. Tears welled up in his eyes as he whimpered, “This is my fault. I knew he was close to the brink and I just let him keep going like everything was fine.” 

“We both did, but this isn’t the time to think about that. We have to find him. Let’s split up. We'll meet back up at Crowley's office in an hour. If we still haven't found him… we'll just have to resort to asking for help.”

The pair exchanged nods. Sometime within his search, it occured to Azira that calling out for Crowley might startle him further, and he fell quiet. After what felt like an hour, his method found purchase, as he heard small whispered sobs of, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry,” from behind a particularly large, disfigured tree.

With the utmost care, he rounded the barricade. His heart shattered into one thousand little pieces as he found his friend, grasping something invisible to his chest and rocking back and forth as he choked and gasped for air, mangled face tracked with tears. 

“Anthony?” the gentle voice sounded. 

Crowley snapped his wand upwards at the sound of his name, shaking so hard it could hardly hold its target, “Stay away from us!” 

“Crowley,” Azira tried, holding his hands up and crouching down. With deliberate, slow motions, he held out an upturned palm to his friend, “Dearest, it’s me. It’s Azira. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

A lost, confused expression contorted the redhead’s features.

“That’s not- you’re not here. You weren’t- aren’t… it’s not safe here, Angel.” 

“It is. They’re just memories, Crowley. They can’t hurt you any longer. I promise. You’re here with me- now.”

“But everyone’s dying,” Crowley urged.

“No. Not anymore. We’re all safe. We’re here.” 

Azira cautiously approached, sitting down next to Crowley and wrapping an arm around his quaking shoulders.

“Valencia. She’s hurt- she needs help.”

“Valencia’s not here, my dear.”

“She is! Look at her! She’s-,” Anthony’s panicked rambling came to a halt as he looked downwards at the empty space in his arms. He clenched his fists open and shut, staring at his palms, “She was right here…” 

“Come on, let’s get you back.”

“It’s not safe! I don’t want to see it any more. I can’t. It’s too much.” 

“It is safe, you trust me, don’t you?”

Crowley looked lost, eyes flickering around him at the ghosts Azira didn’t see. They weren’t attacking him. They didn’t see him any more. They didn’t hear him either. He looked back into those blue skies that always held him so safe, “I do.” 

“Then close your eyes and take my hand. We’ll get you back.”

The journey was slow- careful, and the Herbologist’s limbs were stiff as boards from such prolonged exposure to the cold conditions. Azira talked with Crowley the entirety of their trek, offering little comments of affirmation and praise and hoping his voice was louder than the ones his dearest person kept flinching and cowering at. Soon enough they were back in the Herbologist’s office. Anthony was guided to the sofa where he was carefully lowered down. 

“Open your eyes, my dear. We’re back here, in your office.” 

Crowley opened his eyes again, staring at Azira, and then around him, drowning in monsoons of confusion, “How did you get us here? How did you get us through the battle?”

“Shhh, it’s alright. The battle was a long time ago. You’re here. Now. Oh, Dearest, you’re freezing cold. I’m going to light the fire, alright?” 

No response was offered this time. The haunted wizard stared blankly ahead, flinching occasionally at phantom noises. Azira took it upon himself to stoak the fireplace into a roaring flame. It was only now he took the time to look around the office and find countless empty liquor bottles littered across every surface. Some had tumbled onto the floor. As if his heart hadn’t suffered enough damage, guilt caught it like flames caught the logs in the hearth. He had seen Crowley’s suffering. Crowley had directly told him that he was slipping further and further into the past. He had known, and any attempt to help had been absolutely fruitless.

Anthony gasped and again raised his wand as the door opened with an abrupt urgency. He lowered it again upon identifying Anathema as a friend. She closed the door after herself and cautiously drew close, eyes performing a thorough evaluation of her long-time companion. 

“What are we doing?” Crowley realized suddenly, “We should be helping. We have to. Don’t you hear that? How are you two acting like you don’t hear it?” 

“Hear what, Crowley?” Anathema asked instinctively, only afterwards raising her gaze to find Azira, who sadly shook his head. 

“The fucking  _ battle _ !” the pure-blood hissed before standing out of his seat and rushing towards the window, “It’s deafening! You walked right through it! How can you ignore  _ that-” _

He threw open the curtains, revealing only the gloomy day and brown, beaten-down winter lawn. His hands began a slow descent down the curtains, loosening their grip as they fell to his sides. He staggered backwards, hands raising to his face. The witch in his company rushed forward, guiding him back to his seat.

“What’s happening to me? I saw it. It was  _ real _ . Satan help me, I’m losing my bloody mind” he agonized, long fingers pulling with a vengeance at the soft red locks of his hair.

“Shhh, you’re going to be alright,” Anathema offered, stepping forward and pulling his head to her stomach, wrapping her arms around his shuddering shoulders.

“How?” Crowley asked with hardly a scrap of strength, voice wavering. 

Azira exchanged hard looks with the Potions Master before sitting next to Crowley, resting a hand on the middle of his back to still its quaking. He spoke with all the confidence and assurance he could muster, “With friends at your side. We’re here, Dearest. We’ve got you.”

* * *

The next three days were slow for everyone, but not quite so much as they were for Crowley. Both Azira and Anathema had been reluctant to return to work, initially, but a determined Thelpie had chased them both away, assuring them that neither of them knew how to handle this situation quite like she did. Azira reluctantly resigned himself to admit she was quite correct. 

He had still visited though, of course. Every day. Each morning he’d cut out the happiest news he could find in the Prophet and take them right to Crowley’s bedside to read them to him in hopes it might reinstill some hope or strengthen his spirit. The typically-fiery redhead hadn’t said a word since he’d been laid down. Didn’t even look at anyone who was speaking to him, really. He’d simply stared off into the distance with a blank canvas of an expression and haunted eyes. 

Thus it brought a great deal of alarm to Azira to enter Crowley’s chambers the fourth morning and find him completely absent. His panic was hardly assuaged as Thelpie very calmly informed him that the pure-blood had gone on a walk to clear his head and to please not look so worried, as this was a good thing. 

Azira had to wonder where Anthony would possibly be going in his current mindset. He checked the greenhouses to no avail, only witnessing Neville Longbottom’s substitute teaching. He wouldn’t go to the great hall at this time. Azira would have crossed paths with him if he’d gone to the library. Anathema was in classes, so he couldn’t have gone to the potion’s lab. There were few others of Crowley’s haunts left; the quidditch field (which no doubt he was in no mood for), the clocktower, and-

The blonde brought up a hand to smack his forehead. The  _ memorial _ . How obvious. He rushed there through the freshly fallen snow, pulling his hat down over his ears as futile protection against the prickling cold. A familiar asymmetrical structure of transparent, icy blue came into view, and through it Azira could spot a well-known figure sprawled back against it on its other side. 

He approached with a quiet respect, only clearing his throat to alert the wizard of his presence. Crowley swung his head to examine Azira, unencumbered by glasses, and gestured for him to take a seat- a request that was accepted. They sat together in relative quiet for a while, only the soft hooting of owls overhead and the shaking of trees sounding. Finally, Azira was unable to withhold his fussing, noting that Crowley was turning quite blue.

“You’re going to catch your death out here,” he sighed, taking off his own scarf and wrapping it around his companion’s neck. 

“Wouldn’t be the first,” Crowley snided, rapping a knuckle against the glass fixture behind them. 

“Do you think they’re still here?” Azira found himself asking. There wasn’t any real meaning behind it, his heart simply felt its first relief in days at Crowley’s voice, and he didn’t want to be deprived of it again.

“Ehhh, I dunno. Would’ve seen ‘em by now, I imagine. George and I think Fred’s been following him around, messing with him proper. Then there’s poor V, trapped in purgatory until she dies. Her name should be up here, too.” 

“You’ll free her soon enough.” 

Crowley gave Azira a hard look that the latter couldn’t quite decipher. Even in the face of his trauma and his demons, Azira had a way of making his heart flutter. The man had always had a way of making Crowley feel, even when he didn’t want to- of making him remember that he was alive. Then again, he always made him feel safe, too. Azira had him, so he knew he’d be alright. It followed. It was sensible.

“How can you have s- sss- so much faith in such a hopeless cause?” 

“It’s never hopeless,” Azira responded, lacking in anything resembling hesitation, “Not when it’s you.” 

He couldn’t tell if the expression given to him next was appreciation, pain, or some mixture of the two, but the surprise on his own was clear as day as he heard the very last thing he could have ever expected.

“Did I ever tell you what happened?” 

They both knew he hadn’t. 

“No. You never did,” Azira offered not just the words, but his willingness to know. He just hoped he didn’t sound too eager. 

Crowley let out a deep sigh, eyes fixed on the horizon. He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm to distract from the pain welling in his chest. He nearly jumped as a soft hand smoothed over the back of his hand, then crossed to the front, easing his fingers and intertwining with them. The redhead had to clear his throat, willing away tears with all his might at the simple act of love and support from his guardian angel.

“It felt like we were fighting for s- sss- so long. It felt like the world was ending. When they said that only twenty five of ours had fallen, it felt like a lie. It felt like so much more- and, w- ww- well. Anyway. It was madness. Valencia told me to run for the woods and when I got there… she was- she was gone,” he stumbled over the last few words, clearing his throat after his voice cracked. He fell silent for a moment, slipping back into the horrid moment.

A squeeze of his hand and a glance into those clear blue eyes brought him back to the present. 

“So, uh… I start hearing this woman who is  _ screaming _ bloody murder, begging for help, from the forest. And I don’t know what comes over me. I should know better, but I go towards it. And what do you know, it’s my birth-mother. She’s b- be- been hit by the cruciatus curse. I know she’s the enemy, but I try to kneel down next to her anyway- to tell her it will be okay. But she sees it’s  _ me _ and tells me she would rather die there on the s- sss- spot than be touched by her blood-traitor son. Her yelling draws my father, and he sees me standing over her writhing on the ground with my wand in my hand and- and even if he h- ha- hadn’t, he still would’ve-... and he says- doesn’t matter. Something awful. He goes for the killing curse, and I block it. But I’m a bad duelist, and I’m too slow. He goes for the cruciatus curse and I know he’s going to get me, so I brace myself for it and-” 

Crowley fell silent yet again, this time a free hand raising to cover his mangled face as he gasps for air. 

“And then Valencia’s laying in the dirt in front of me, begging me to m- me- make it stop, screaming in pain. I get so angry and I cast petrificus totalus, and what do you know, it works. Old man falls square on his face. He had so much hatred for me when he'd cast it, the curse still didn't stop. If I’d cast the killing curse, I could have dispelled it. But I’m too much of a coward. I’m too w- www-  _ weak _ to kill my own father, no matter how much of a f- fff- fucking monster he is. I drag V as far as I can, as fast as I can, and just hide. A couple hours later, she finally breaks out of the curse, so I know he’s dead. It had rained that night. My dad had drowned in a fucking puddle. I had killed him anyway, and at the cost of the mental annihilation of my best friend in the world. It was my fault, Azira. It’s  _ all my fault _ .” 

Tears hardly had time to fall before he was caught in a firm, warm embrace, face buried into the neck of this person he loved so much. Azira should have been repulsed; why was he holding him? 

Because that’s just who he was, Crowley remembered. Because he couldn’t stand to see another person in pain, even if they deserved it. 

“It’s not,” came that comforting voice, melodious as the world’s most beautiful song to Crowley’s ears, “My dear, you were so brave. You stood up to your tormenter without stooping to his level. You refused to be cruel when, down to his last breath, he tried to force it out of you.” 

They were mostly guesses drawn from the conclusions he'd made after months of noting missing blanks Crowley refused to fill in. Something he said must have been quite like hitting a nail on its head, as Crowley let out a deep, hearty sob into his shoulder. 

“He got it though, in the end. When they told me he was dead- that it was my fault- I thought ‘good fucking riddance’. That’s how I know I have the same  _ black heart _ ,” he hissed, hand clutching over his chest.

“You don’t. You spent your whole childhood under a tormenter and then were freed of him. I’m glad of it too. Would you call me wicked for that?” 

“Never,” Crowley whispered into Azira’s robes.

Azira held him so tight, it was easy to believe he’d never fall again. His angel allowed him to cry for a while before burying his face into his hair and whispering, “It’s understandable that you’re haunted, but you can’t carry the weight of someone else’s actions on your shoulders. You didn’t raise your wand against Valencia. You didn’t force her in front of you. She gave you the gift of getting to live your life. After twenty years, please consider taking it.” 

After several more moments of them remaining like that, Crowley melded into Azira’s side as his hair was gently stroked, he pulled back, feeling quite sheepish as he wiped his face. 

“What now?” 

“Think you can stomach your meeting with McGonagall?” 

Patient blue eyes examined him while he thought. Finally he closed his own golden pair, releasing a long sigh and nodding as he responded with a determined, “Let’s go.”

* * *

“A  _ sabbatical?  _ When was the last time you heard of a fucking  _ forced _ sabbatical?” Crowley growled as he stormed through his office and into his chambers, flicking his wand at his wardrobe and sending his trunk clattering open on the ground. Azira came rushing in after him, anxiety scrawled onto his features, and jumped at the boisterous noise. 

“Well it’s-

“Wrote to my  _ parents _ . How fucking humiliating is that?” 

“I know it seems that way, but perhaps-

“Two weeks. What if something happens while I’m gone?” he begged to know, outraged.

“We’ll handle it,” Azira rushed out the reassurance, raising his hand as he approached Crowley in hopes that he wouldn’t be smacked by one of the shoes rocketing around the room to find its way to the trunk. 

“I should bloody well hope so! A  _ sabbatical _ ,” he repeated again, hardly listening to Azira as he carried on in his warpath through his room, “Where did she even get that idea?” 

“Well,” the Muggle-born began nervously, “from me…” 

Even from behind, he knew this news would be received just as badly as he feared upon viewing Crowley’s shoulders raise and his body stiffen. The wizard slowly turned, wand lowering, though his trunk continued packing itself. 

“From you,” he repeated, looking at the tattered rug on the ground as he processed and then raising his eyes to look at Azira’s. The stars within Crowley’s were releasing solar flares of anger at first that grew with a sense of betrayal and then faded into a dim understanding that Azira was concerned might be gravely inaccurate, “Oh.” 

Crowley turned, looking about himself, not quite sure what to do with his hands, he looked off to the side, half-heartedly raising his hand to stop whatever was about to come out of Azira’s mouth next.

“It’s fine. I get it.”

“I’m… not sure you do, Dear Boy,” Azira started, squeezing his hands within one another in excess anxiety. 

“No. I do. I shouldn’t have… never mind.” 

“No, Crowley, please- shouldn’t have what?” 

“Shouldn’t have expected you to want to- to-,” he stopped, heaving a great sigh, “I shouldn’t have expected you to be there for me. No one ever can, for too long.” 

He might has well have stabbed a knife through Azira’s heart. Azira’s soft mouth fell open, his gentle eyes glazed over with pain, and his brows furrowed as he heartily protested, “That’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. I want to be there for you.”

“Do you? I’ve tried to earn it for so long. I thought I was coming close, for a while. Then this. Then you send me away. What am I supposed to think?” 

The process of Crowley’s thoughts were becoming clearer now. Azira realized all at once that the term ‘being there for’ was some futile attempt at code making way for them to discuss ‘being with’ in a much deeper sense. He felt even more affronted than before. Crowley really thought he refused to be with him because of this? Frustration consumed him. He’d shown he loved Crowley time and time again. Perhaps he had been reluctant in the midst of his fear for Crowley’s safety, and perhaps he had been coming closer to submitting near the holiday. However, the reasoning Anthony had manifested for why he didn’t was wildly inaccurate. Azira saw to it to do what he did best- educate.

“You won’t  _ let _ me ‘be there for’ you, Crowley. I’m not running away. I’m not sending you away. You’ve been pushing me away. You don’t talk to me. You keep secrets. Every personal question I ask is treated as if I had the audacity to trash your greenhouse. The only moments you lower those- those- those  _ damn  _ defenses and let me so much as glance inside is when you’re inebriated or you have a total breakdown. It shouldn’t take that much for you to  _ trust _ me, and how can I be- ‘be there for’ you if you don’t even trust me? You say you do every time I ask. But your actions and your words- they just don't line up.

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley sighed, raising a tired arm to shut the lid of his trunk before slumping down on top of it. He looked more exhausted than Azira had ever seen him. His head hung low, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at the inevitable disappointment on that face he loved so much as he continued, “You’re right, but it's not because I don't trust you. I’ve kept so many secrets. How couldn’t I? You’ve always- always wanted to see something  _ worth wanting _ in me. Hell,  _ I’ve _ always wanted you to find that in me. But it’s not there. You want to know what I’ve been so desperately trying to hide? I’m a weak, selfish, spineless, broken coward. The further down you dig, the more truth in that you’ll find. You will learn there is absolutely nothing worth wanting. So there it is. You shouldn’t waste your time worrying about me.” 

“That’s not true,” Azira found himself blurting out defensively. Tears were prickling at the corners of his eyes and his voice was becoming strained. His chest felt so tight that his lungs strained to expand for air.

“It is. And it’s better this way. You deserve better than being- ‘being there for’ me. I should have accepted that a long time ago.” 

“You don’t get to decide for me,” the blonde protested, “You don’t get to decide what I want or what I deserve.” 

Finally, Crowley braved a look at his beloved’s face, taking a shaky breath as he stood. The stars there were all but burnt out, “I’m sorry, Az. I’m sorry I’m a disappointment. I always have been, to anyone who took the time to get to know me. I’m sorry I never learned to stay away. I’m sorry I can’t be better for you.” 

“Crowley, please. I don’t need you to be ‘better’, whatever you think that is. You’re not a broken object that needs fixing. You’re a  _ person _ that I  _ care _ about. It hurts me to hear you talk about yourself like this. You’re so much more than you believe, my Dearest.”

A look of pain flashed across Crowley’s face as he watched Azira raise a hand to wipe away tears before they fell. Of course he hated himself already, but never more than upon witnessing that he had caused his angel this much pain, that he had drawn tears from him. 

“Oh, Angel. I’m glad you can’t s- sss- see me for what I am. I don’t want you to. This way we can stay friends.”

_ I don’t want to lose you. _

“I can see just fine, thank you,” Azira whispered in defiance, looking away as he sniffled. 

Crowley gave a weak smile, flicking his wand at his trunk so it would follow after him.

“Take care of Twit for me?” 

“Of course.”

“And say goodbye to Anathema?” 

“Alright.” 

Upon passing Azira, the overwhelming temptation to hold him was there. To kiss away those tears. To take those self-tortured hands and hold them to his heart. But they were self-indulgent desires- ones that Crowley wasn’t entitled to.

When he reached the door, he looked back through teary eyes at the back of this person who he loved more than anything else in the world. The person he would never feel he deserved to have in his life. The angel he had scorned. 

“Goodbye, Azira.”

Azira couldn’t bring himself to turn around. Only pure willpower kept his voice from breaking.

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary:  
Crowley has resigned himself to dissociation with the help of alcohol. He sees the Dark Mark, a clear message from his Death Eater cousins which triggers a mental breakdown surrounded by memories of the Battle of Hogwarts. Azira finds him in the forest, believing he is within the events of the battle. Upon returning to his office, Crowley realizes that for however real they are, they are only memories. He takes a few days to recover. On the fourth day he opens up to Azira, revealing what happened during the Battle of Hogwarts. He confides that he found his mother suffering under the cruciatus curse. His father, having stumbled upon him standing over her, attempts to kill him, which he deflects. He then attempts to cast the cruciatus curse on Anthony, but Val, having been missing before, appears and takes the hit. Crowley casts petrificus totalus on his father, who falls forward. Crowley drags Val to safety, and later, upon her curse being lifted, is told that his father, unable to move, drowned in a puddle that formed from the rain that night. Crowley feels immense regret that in his inability to kill his father outright, he caused his death anyways, and at the price of his best friend's mental health. He expects Azira to be disgusted and affronted at the truth. Azira simply holds him and tells him the reality of it all- that he's brave. That he was strong to resist his father's life-long attempts of making him live up to his cruel and heartless namesake, and that he's not at all evil for being relieved upon hearing of his father's death.  
With some comfort and encouragement from his best friend, Crowley faces his fate at the hands of McGonagall. He learns he is going on a forced two-week sabbatical, and, much to his embarrassment, his parents (The Heller's) have already been contacted. He is gravely wounded at the discovery that this was Azira's idea. He misreads it as Azira throwing in the towel when it comes to being there for (or the idea of being with) Crowley. Azira confronts Crowley, standing up for himself and insisting that this is not a fair conclusion. He insists that he wants to be there for (and be with) Crowley, but that Crowley has pushed him away with countless secrets and lies. He points out that Crowley only confides in him when absolutely trashed or during mental breakdowns. He asks how he can possibly be there for (or be with) him when this is the case. Crowley resigns himself to admit Azira's right about him keeping secrets, and claims that this was to protect Azira from the "reality" that Crowley isn't worthy of support or love, and believes he is a spineless, selfish, broken person. He apologizes that he can't be better for Azira. Azira insists that he's wrong about himself and that he's not a broken object needing fixing- he's a person that Azira cares very deeply for. Crowley suggests he's glad Azira can't see him for who he truly is; he's relieved, as it means they can still be friends. Azira stands strong in his convictions, retorting that he can "see just fine, thank you". The two part with equally painful goodbyes.  
\--End Summary-- (If you'd like to read their last argument, it's under the last page break of the chapter. I would say it's pretty safe to read after the second page break.)
> 
> Hoo-wee, what can I say other than I am so (so? SO?) sorry and I promise I hurt myself just as much in writing this as I'm sure I did in you reading it. Also you're welcome for not posting this on Christmas Eve as your fellow readers on Twitter voted for.  
HOWEVER- this is the angstiest it gets for quite some time, and I will soon follow up with some comfort for this hurt.  
Professor Device predicts Anthony will be just fine, as will his friendship with Azira- and hey, she's usually right!
> 
> In the next Chapter you'll get to see Crowley and Azira's first reunion as adults back in 2017 (which is very cute), as well as some sweetness involving Azira driving Anathema absolutely loony with his fussing over Crowley in his absence.
> 
> Big thank you to @outbreakfile for beta reading the last two chapters for me! <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn how Azira came to be Hogwarts' librarian. Azira drives everybody within ten feet of him crazy worrying about Crowley. Neville and Azira have a talk in the library. Our good good demon boy makes a comeback. (Can you tell how lazy i'm getting with these summaries? (Maybe i should stop writing them))

July 7th, 2017

Flourish and Blotts Bookseller was practically deserted compared to the wall-to-wall madness of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. It only made sense. Over one thousand students had been freed of their academic incarceration and were on the hunt for new exciting and undoubtedly mischievous ways to aggrieve their parents over the coming summer holiday. Books were the last thing the vast majority of children had any interest in indulging in. 

True to fashion, Crowley was up to a little mischief of his own after a botched attempt to come visit his good friends George and Angelina Weasley, along with their two offspring. Fred and Roxanne had received far too long a merciful vacation from him for his taste, with the term only having ended seven days prior. Much to the kids’ dismay, his social call had been cut short by the overwhelming crowds, so he’d found a new occupation to take up his afternoon in Diagon Alley. 

This had been the fourth wizarding bookshop he’d visited within the perimeter of the M25 on his quest to both promote his good friend Neville Longbottom’s book as well as hinder the sales of one Aiden Dragonsnap. Despite his infamy in the wider Wizarding Community, Crowley and Neville had long since pegged him as an equally popular, vapid, and fraudulent Gilderoy Lockhart knock-off. Of course, Crowley could easily use his wiles and silver tongue to trash talk the man’s books out of their stores, but he preferred more subtle approaches. He found it better, after all, to ask forgiveness rather than permission. 

The redhead casually sauntered about the prime selling table near the front of the store. The shopkeep had been sent by Crowley on a futile mission upstairs in the back of the store to acquire a book near the ceiling that he had absolutely no need for. From behind the smoked glass on his face, he took in his surroundings, noting only a couple bystanders who were occupied by the high-stacked tomes on either wall. 

“Aheheeem,” he coughed into his hand, doing hardly anything to mask the boisterous clunking of a tall pile of books to the floor. He promptly kicked them under the tablecloth just before a nearby witch turned to catch his eye. 

“Clatter cough. Best get some resistance potion for it while you’re out. Nasty business, believe you me,” he convinced her. 

The woman mimicked his body language, nodding despite the confused look upon her face, and turned back to her business. Working quickly, he slid several copies of Neville’s latest work (that he’d found piled in a corner of the back of the store) into the spotlight where they ought to be.

“Sparing the world of being victim to Dragonsnap’s literary horror? How heroic,” commended a nearby voice. 

A wicked grin took over Crowley’s features as he turned to face the voice’s owner, “Ah. Yeah. Well. It’s a thankless job, but someone’s- ssss- ssssssss--

His ‘s’ extended entirely on incident as he found the speaker had been none other than Azira Fell, himself. Azira Fell, who he hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing in over two decades. It wasn’t as if he’d been looking for him or anything- in every wizarding crowd, at every bookstore and museum, and at every social gathering of every person they’d ever had the pleasure of mutually knowing. Who even knew how long it’d been since he’d last laid eyes on the man (Crowley did, twenty two years). He could have looked like anyone; Crowley might not have even recognized him (but he did, of course he did). 

“- someone’s gotta do it,” he finished as suavely as possible for one to do after hissing at another person for a solid fifteen seconds. 

“Not all heroes wear capes, but I suppose the wizarding kind do,” Azira bantered back with a grin, and Crowley’s heart wasted precisely zero seconds before imploding into a supernova. 

His eyes still crinkled at the corners when he gave that stunning smile- of course they did. His face was still so soft and inviting and his hair still curly and blonde- of course it was. The man himself exuded the same angelic aura as he always had, stronger than ever now- of course he did. Above all, those clear blue skies within his eyes made Crowley feel as vulnerable and seen as they did that warm September day so long ago, and all at once, he was just as young, stupid, and star-struck in equal measure.

“Pardon me, but you look awfully familiar. Don't we know each other? I believe we were in the same house at school. Anthony Crawly, isn’t it?”

Crowley realized he was still menacingly crouched over the pile of books and cleared his throat while only somewhat straightening his spine. His hands found their place deeply tangled into his pockets, and he sniffed as he turned his head to the side, giving the illusion of looking away. Of course, he didn’t take his eyes off of the man. How could he? Satan help him, he was just as painstakingly beautiful now. He still made Crowley’s heart spin out of orbit and his mind threaten to combust. 

“Er- eh- y- yeah. ‘S Crowley now, though,” he hummed with as much nonchalance as he could summon. 

“Crowley? That has quite a nice sound to it. I don’t know if you remember, I’m-”

“Azira Fell,” Crowley finished on instinct, feeling the heat pool to his disgruntled face as Azira’s brows raised high. He rushed to regather his cool composure, “I mean, if I recall correctly.” 

It was strange. Crowley worked with words the way experienced wandmakers worked with woods. He could talk the staunchest advocate into considering the opposite of their beliefs. He could tempt nearly anyone into his bed. He could whisper pretty words into the most wary of ears and watch as they fulfilled his suggestions. With Azira Fell, however, it felt like the knowledge was drained straight out of him, and a love-sick, dreamy concoction was poured into its place. 

“You do,” his angel reassured with a smile that set his battered heart on fire. A nearby clock tower reminded shoppers of its presence, sounding four strong chimes. Azira lit up, “Oh! That’s tea time. If it’s not too forward of me to ask, would you care to join me? I haven’t spoken to any schoolmates in ages.” 

Crowley looked around himself, as if expecting someone to be standing directly behind him. Naturally, _ that _person would be who Azira was extending the invitation to. But there was no one else within his perimeter, and indeed, the invitation was meant for him. Hell must have been rewarding him for his minor mischief, as this was nearing a longer interaction than Crowley had ever had with his boarding-school (and in an embarrassing realization, current) crush. 

“Sure. ‘M not busy, mischief managed, as it were,” he hummed suavely with a toothy grin, though naturally the reference was lost on the do-gooder, Azira Fell, who probably never so much as imagined daring to get wrapped up in the trouble of a certain two map-harboring Weasley’s. 

As the pair made their way through the busy alley to a nearby cafe, several witches and wizards exchanged greetings with the sauntering redhead, and while they were seated near the window an excited twelve year old smashed his face against the glass on the outside, sticking his tongue out at his favorite professor. Crowley flicked his own forked tongue out in turn before giving the kid’s mother a toothy grin and a two fingered salute as she mouthed ‘Hey Anthony!’ with an enthusiastic wave. 

“You seem to know quite a few people,” the blonde commented, looking on with an endeared expression. 

“Me? Aww, yeah. S- sss- small community, though. That’s why- well, you must be visiting for us only to run into one another now.”

Azira looked a bit ashamed, “Oh no, I actually manage a bookshop right here in London.” 

“Really?” the pure-blood entertained the thought that the object of his affections had been so close all this time, “which shop? I must have missed you.”

“Oh it’s- erm, that is, it’s in muggle London. Truth be told, after the events of my last year at school, I might have found myself avoiding the Wizarding world.”

“Right,” Crowley said stupidly. Fell and Diggory, as inseparable as Heller and Crawly, and yet he’d hardly given the Triwizard contestant any thought since his death. He cleared his throat, feeling quite out of his element as he muttered, “Never was able to give you my condolences. Seems a bit late, now.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. It was a long time ago, and I’ve had time to come to terms with everything,” Azira said, appearing quite reprieved, “but thank you, you’re very kind.”

Though he did his best to give Anthony room for his own emotions, he couldn’t help but look on with piqued intrigue as his company bristled in discomfort at the compliment, squirming in his seat and turning a shade of pink that might have gone unnoticed if Azira had looked away for a moment. He seemed to struggle with devising any manner of comprehensive reply other than a dismissive, “not really.”

The waitress relieved him of the spectacle he was making, taking their orders. Tea and cake for Azira. A cup of black coffee for Crowley. Despite his momentary faltering, the two fell into a quite natural back and forth. The Herbologist felt very much as if he were in a dream as the Muggle-born inquired about the Wizarding world over the last two decades, listening to Crowley’s replies with such fervor it could be believed he held the moon on a string. Never before had this person formed any kind of intrigue in what he might have to say to this level. Anthony found himself terribly remiss that this tea time would likely be the last of Azira’s company he would ever be blessed with. The last time he could watch the blonde enjoy dessert like it was the most wondrous thing in the world. The conversation went on for nearly an hour, feeling as second-nature as if they’d been friends for years, before Crowley finally found the audacity to ask the question playing tug-of-war with his curiosity. 

“You really haven’t heard any of this? M- mmmm- muggle world must be interesting for you to stay away so long,” he mused, indulging himself while simultaneously cursing that blasted stutter. As he was so long ago, his angel was kind enough to ignore it entirely.

“Not exactly,” Azira replied, taking on that guilty look yet again, “It just felt safe- and it certainly was, but then… oh, I don’t know. I found that indulging myself- staying in that familiar, sheltered little corner of that bookshop with all my books was truly shutting me off to the world. Then, recently, I started coming here again- to this magical, wondrous world that I was so lucky to have the opportunity to be a part of and denied myself for so long. It just makes me feel more penitent. I feel as if I was such a coward to shut myself away for two decades because of one tragedy. Before I knew it, I realized that it felt more like life was living me than I’m living it. Oh, dear, I suppose that’s a bit much, isn’t it? I am sorry.”

“Don’t be!” Crowley rushed out, face growing hot as his companion responded with an expression of surprise, “That is… er, I know the feeling. Experienced it in my mid-twenties.”

“May I ask… how you got through it? I do apologize if that’s too invasive a question,” the blonde asked with bashful hesitance. 

As off-putting as Crowley could be, as deeply penetrating his long stares or token grimace, he had a disarmingly honest grin that could convince the most miserable of people that all was right with the world. He gave Azira such a smile now.

“Well. I turned my whole bloody life upside down. The farther away I got from my own tragedies, the more I realized I was running away from them. Hogwarts was looking for an Herbology professor and I found myself applying. Got the job, moved to Scotland, and started getting paid for the research I would have been doing on my own dime, otherwise. And the places I’ve _ been _ to research- the Sahara, the arctic tundra of Russia, the semi-arid pampas- hell, next week I’m going to New Guinea. And those _ kids _. Hard to feel like you don’t have an impact on the world- like you’re alone or don’t have anything to offer- when you work with those little Hellspawn. I’d tear down the heavens for any one of them, even the brats.”

A wistful expression captivated Azira’s features as he listened to his newfound friend share the nature of his life. He likened a child listening to a fairytale. 

“You’re a professor? That makes quite a bit of sense. I always was awful at Herbology. Hogwarts, though- it was like a home to me- to all of us, I’m sure. I can’t help but find myself a little envious. I miss it all- even the Quidditch matches. I would always go, but I’d find myself reading through them if I’m being honest. Oh, and that _ library _. That was my hideout, my safe-haven, really.”

All at once, a seed of a wicked idea dropped into Crowley’s brain. It rooted deep and grew fast, branches forming and spindling outwards like a timelapse of a sapling growing into a majestic oak. Perhaps this wouldn’t be their last little chat, after all. 

“Ohhh, yeah, the library. Shame, that.”

“A shame?” Azira’s eyes snapped back from his reminiscing of decades past, and he was suddenly very present, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, after the Battle of Hogwarts, it was left in absolute shambles. The ash has gone since then, but the books are still scorched, misplaced, and scrambled. It’s a proper mess, it is. The students haven’t had real access to books in years. Worst part is we’ve gone through a load of librarians since then, but none of them are up to the task. Some of them have even had breakdowns and quit overnight. In fact, our most recent staff appointed there put in his resignation just last week. I’d imagine McGonagall’s going to have a nightmare finding someone to take his place.”

He watched as the tree that had grown in his mind dropped a seed into Azira’s. He bristled with pride upon observing it grow through those beautiful blue eyes. Finally, a hopeful smile took over that soft face that felt like sunshine beating down on Crowley’s heart.

“Do you know what sort of experience they’re looking for? Would I stand a chance?” 

Anthony feigned surprise, as if he hadn’t carefully crafted the temptation for this exact result only moments prior, “You? Hnnm, McGonagall always sang your p- pr- eh, praises. I’d be shocked if you weren’t hired on the spot. If you’re looking for a change, it might be worth a try. Couldn’t hurt, could it, Angel?” 

“No, I don’t suppose it could,” Azira chirped, voice positively dripping with optimism as he beamed at Crowley. They both caught the nickname at the same time. Crowley cursed under his breath as he felt his face heat something vengeful. Azira looked surprised, but let out a bit of a laugh, thankfully. His eyes crinkled in that way that turned Anthony to complete and utter mush as he crooned, “Now that’s a nickname I haven’t heard in over twenty years. Reminds me of my school days, in a good way.”

Crowley released the tension he’d been holding, doing all but sighing in relief as his slip didn’t result in rejection. 

“I don’t know how I can’t thank you for this tea time, Dear Boy. You’ve done more than you know.” 

The professor plucked up his spoon and gave it a playful ring against his coffee mug. His voice was dripping with flirtation, the nuance of which seemed to soar straight over Azira Fell’s head, and his heart was beating faster than a Snidget’s wings as he hummed, “You can thank me properly by buying me a drink in Hogsmeade after you’re hired.” 

He felt like a teenager again, and for the first time since he was fourteen, he felt like perhaps hope for the love of his life was still alive, after all. 

* * *

January 23rd, 2019

“What if something’s happened to him? What if he needs help? What if he never got to his parents, after all?”

“Azira, for the last time- I _told _ you. Crowley is going to be fine. He’s going to be _ happy _. I saw it. I promise.”

“But what if that’s dependant on something else? Us finding him or helping him?”

“For God’s sake, eat your food. Shouldn’t that be convincing enough? When was the last time someone had to _ ask _ you to eat your food?” 

Azira sat, negligent of his plate piled with enticing breakfast foods, at the staff table with an Anathema who wore exhaustion far more prominent than her signature glasses. 

“He still hasn’t written us. It’s been over a week. Don’t you find that at all worrisome?”

“Perhaps if you fuss more he’ll sense your ridiculousness and draw you up one right this second. Is that what you think?”

“I’m just worried, Anathema. You could have had that vision weeks ago, and it would still be true. Still, you wouldn’t have seen what just happened to him. 

“I’m worried, too. You know that, Azira. But you. Have got. To stop. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy. Then, not soon after, you’re gonna drive _ me _ crazy. Then all three of us will be the rulers of Loony Land, and none of us will be able to help each other at all. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Azira asked with a tinge of bitterness, huffing and looking down at his meal in consideration. He loaded his fork up with the delightfully fluffy scrambled eggs. They only made it halfway to his mouth before he had turned to his much younger friend yet again, “But you don’t think it’s strange that he hasn’t written _ anybody? _” 

Anathema’s face dropped, her spine stiffened, and her eyes hazed over with a far-away entrancement for a few brief seconds before she snapped back to reality, “He has written someone. Just not us.” 

“Who would he write, if not us and he’s with his family?”

The witch gave her friend a long, hesitant look before jerking her head past him. The blonde gave her a curious glance and turned to find Neville in Crowley’s place, immersed in his morning mail which, from Azira’s angle, was suspiciously familiar to his best friend’s spidery scrawling. 

“Longbottom, if you don’t mind me asking, is that from Crowley?” 

Neville’s light eyes raised from the parchment, scanning the person before him with a gentle appraisal before hesitantly murmuring, “You can call me Neville, and... yes, it is.”

The brown-haired man paused, scanning the back of the letter, which contained Anthony’s writing, before jesting, “No one’s handwriting is quite like Anthony’s, is it?” 

“Mind if we read it?” Anathema butted in, lacking in any emotion even resembling shame. 

“Well- erm- yes, actually, it’s a bit private,” Neville hesitated, but still, he took care to note Azira’s anxiety and quickly offer, “but you shouldn’t worry! He’s doing very well. Better. Absolutely.” 

Truth itself wouldn’t be able to distinguish if Azira’s relief or Anathema’s relief at Azira’s relief released more tension. 

“I am glad to hear that. Thank you for sharing, Neville,” Azira complied, the corners of his mouth twitching up more from compulsion than genuineness. 

The Herbologist responded with a more heartfelt grin of his own, “Of course. I know how close you two are. He’s going to be alright, really.” 

“You hear that, Azira?” 

“I do, Dear Girl. And really, I don’t need patronizing.”

“Maybe you do spend too much time with Crowley,” Anathema mumbled, rolling her eyes, “You’re becoming just as tetchy.” 

* * *

Azira made his rounds re-shelving books, as he always did this time of night. It was tedious, monotonous work that was made quite a great deal easier with the help of magic. What he didn’t expect at this hour was to nearly bulldoze his cart over another human being. 

“Oh!” voiced Neville, lifting his knees “I’m sorry, I lost track of time.” 

They were in a cozy little nook of the library, between shelves. A rickety wooden table accompanied by a few chairs sat nestled against a window. The Herbologist was seated cross-legged in front of it. 

“That’s alright, Dear Boy. The library is always open for those who need it, especially when they don’t have curfews to abide by,” Azira commented with a coy grin, rounding his cart and bearing a moment’s hesitation before taking the liberty of sitting across Neville on the well-worn rug. A groan of effort escaped him as he struggled to remember the last time he’d sat on the floor, “Reminiscing, I imagine? I felt myself flooded by memories when I first came back here. I spent so much time in this place. If I recall correctly, you spent a good amount of your own time in the library.” 

“You got me,” Neville gave an innocent grin of his own, shrugging his shoulders. For as tall as he was, all his body language was performed as if he needed to take care to be as small as possible, “Anthony and I spent hours here in our later years, reading different Herbology books and coming up with our own grand ideas, theories, and plans.” 

“You were close in your adulthood, too, weren’t you?” 

“That’s certainly safe to say.” 

“Would you mind terribly if I- erm- confided in you about a situation that’s been eating away at me?”

A vague look of surprise was traceable on the other wizard’s features, but it was quickly replaced by a nervous, dorky smile, “Anthony can be a bit of a conundrum, can’t he?”

“Yes. Yes, he absolutely can. Since he came back from holiday he had just been so… off. He’d been in such clear pain and refused to do anything about it. I tried to hound after him but to no avail. I attempted to speak with him, but Crowley seems to have it in his head that he’ll fall straight to hell if he utters a word of his pain. I had to figure it out for myself that it was being here- at Hogwarts- that was getting to him so much. I tried to convince him to take a sabbatical of his own accord, but naturally he refused. So when- well, _ this _happened, McGonagall asked me what I thought would be best, and together we agreed to send him on holiday. I’m quite afraid he’ll never forgive me. He was quite cross. Accused me of trying to get rid of him- of not caring.”

Neville transcended through several thorough layers of thought, dedicating all his attention to the issue. Azira was surprised to find a stranger to be such a good listener. 

“In my experience with Anthony,” Neville began with care, raising his head the slightest bit to look Azira more evenly in the eye for the first time, “Sometimes you have to make the decisions he’s too afraid or reluctant to make himself. He might act angry or hurt, but I think that in reality he needs it. All he wants, really, is to know he’s cared about. It’d be different if you sent him away because you didn’t want to help him, but it seems that you really only made that decision out of caring for him. He’s stubborn, but he’ll come around. Honestly, he’s a bit of a kid, sometimes. It’s kind of like when you take a kid away from a firework. They’ll be so angry you ruined their fun until much later when they realize you did it to stop them from combusting into flames.” 

The Muggle-born carefully considered the words. Neville had just been a colleague to Crowley, and yet he seemed to know so much. Then again, Azira was technically just a colleague, too. He pursed his lips in thought before finally commenting, “It would seem you’ve had to make decisions for him in the past, too.”

“Some of the biggest decisions, really,” Neville said, looking quite guilty if Azira wasn’t mistaken. 

“You must have been quite close.” 

“Well, as close as you usually are to someone you plan to marry.” 

Something short circuited in Azira’s brain, and he found himself posed with an open ‘o’ shaped mouth to say something. Instead he froze in the position. 

“I’m sorry- you’re saying you were together?” he finally managed.

“Engaged, yeah,” Neville said, starting to gain an anxious edge to his voice at Azira’s stunned reaction.

“To- to Crowley? Anthony Crowley? He was engaged? To you?” he specified. Rarely was he so slow on the uptake, but this defied most of what he knew about Crowley. The redhead was constantly saying how he didn’t ‘do’ relationships. 

“Er- yeah,” the wizard confirmed, running a nervous hand through his hair. All at once, he recalled who he was talking to and who exactly Azira was to Crowley, “But it was a long time ago! Fourteen years past. I actually met my wife, Hannah- one of your distant cousins I believe?- for the first time since school at one of his parties. You don’t need to be worried or anything.” 

“Oh. I’m not worried, Dear Boy, but thank you! I’m just- well, educated, I suppose,” he rambled, a bit embarrassed that his feelings for Crowley were so obvious that Neville would think he was jealous. It didn’t occur to him that as one of Crowley’s oldest friends, Crowley might have shared his own feelings. He might have even talked Neville’s ears off about it. 

Azira worried his hands, realizing he was looking off into the distance and making Neville quite nervous before he remembered himself.

“Thank you. For your help, I mean. It’s good to know I didn’t do the wrong thing.” 

“Well I don’t think you can do the wrong thing,” Neville said with the cadence of a joke, a lopsided grin taking over his features yet again, “You’re an ‘angel’, aren’t you? That’s what Crowley’s always said when we were kids, anyway.” 

For the second time, Azira felt quite tripped up by something that’d come out of the Herbologist’s mouth. 

“You mean to say he started that?” 

“It’s Crowley,” Neville laughed, “What doesn’t he start?” 

* * *

“And you don’t think it’s strange he didn’t tell me?”

“Not really,” Anathema hummed with a noncommittal attention, glancing around the forest, “Less talking, more scavenging.

Today the witch had recruited her friend to search for potion ingredients, most of which could be found in the form of dead magical creatures. Azira hadn’t known that tidbit when he’d agreed to it. Anathema had easily guilt-tripped him into staying, mentioning that Crowley usually helped her, but since he’d been sent away it’d take her hours to do it on her own. 

“Well I think it’s strange. They were together for six years! Engaged! And not a word of it to me, or even to you?” 

“I knew Crowley had been engaged,” Anathema shrugged, leaning down to gather some squirming red toadstools that were growing near the bank of the creek they walked along. The little organisms quickly tried to leap out of Anathema’s reach, but she had quicker hands. 

“Oh. Lovely. So it’s just me he was keeping that from.” 

“Him not bringing it up doesn’t mean he’s _ keeping _ it from you. I’ve been friends with him for six years. With time I bet it would have come up at some point. I mean- it was a long time ago and all. Besides, it's not a great thing to tell someone you're hopelessly in love with- oh, bat cadaver! Score!”

“My dear girl. Don’t you have a supplier?” Azira asked miserably as he angled his eyes anywhere but at her frankly horror-show-like display of separating the bat from its wings.

“Yeah, but I like to get what I can on my own. Don’t you like to know where your food comes from? It’s the same with potions ingredients.” 

“In this regard, I think I might rather not know,” he said, hardly making an attempt to keep the disgust from his voice. His mind barrelled forwards, “Anyway, it seems out of character. Crowley’s always saying how he doesn’t ‘do’ relationships.” 

“Gee, almost like a broken engagement from a six year relationship would put someone off from them. Especially for a person who shapes their very behavior around keeping people away to avoid getting hurt. Especially for a person who gets hurt quite easily,” she said sarcastically, voice drifting farther away as she left Azira near the water. 

He scurried after her, fussing over his robes as he had to maneuver around the sap-covered trees. 

“Fair enough point, but I could do without the cheek.” 

“You love cheek,” Anathema grinned to herself, “We’re best friends with Crowley. He’s the cheekiest bastard I know.” 

Azira found himself unable to contest that point, so he fell into silence, meandering after the witch. His mind kept spinning, however. He pointed out some fireflies surrounding them, difficult to see in the light of day. Anathema praised him and then pinched her tongue between her teeth as she chased after the insects with a jar in hand. 

“Seems like a strange match, doesn’t it? Crowley and Neville?” he finally started back up again. 

Azira was brilliant. He loved to turn a topic over in his mind, examining it from every single angle. His focus was absolutely unrivaled. Unfortunately for his friends, this meant they were victim to suffering through his thought process. Fortunately for Azira, said friends met his fixations with immeasurable patience. 

Anathema didn’t turn her head to acknowledge her friend but grinned and rolled her eyes, exhaling a laugh sharply through her nose. 

“Whatever was that for, Dear Girl? It was only a question.” 

“An obvious one. For someone so clever, you’re pretty slow on the uptake, you know.” 

“Then fill me in, by all means.” 

Anathema gave him a glance drenched in incredulity, grin still in place. 

“Well, let’s see. Based on what I can surmise from what I’ve heard about him, he was kind of an outcast in school, he’s very smart with his own little fixations, doesn’t shut up about the things he’s passionate about, hopelessly devoted to his friends, kind, brave, selfless, and treats Crowley like he’s full of potential. _ Believes _ in Crowley. I don’t know, it’s almost like,” she started, stopping to make a show of gripping her chin and pretending to think, “like- like… Crowley? Has a type? Based off a certain school crush?” 

“Oh,” Azira said. The realization came a bit late, and he felt the heat rush to his face, _ “Oh.” _

“‘Oh’, he says,” Anathema snorted to herself, giving a great roll of her deep brown eyes yet again before giving him a fond look, “Eres un poco tontito.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, indignant already since she rarely spoke Spanish unless it was to tease him.

“Nothing,” she dismissed, “Anyway. You better hurry up and confess to Crowley already.” 

The heat on his face grew in intensity and he narrowed his eyes, gaping at his friend.

“Excuse me?” 

Anathema gave an innocent little shrug, “Just some advice from a Seer. You can keep on with denying yourself, but you should know that the longer you wait, the more emotions you’re going to have to put up with.” 

“What emotions are those?” 

“Oh, you know. Insecurity, pining, _ jealousy _.” 

Her voice was dripping with playful teasing at the last word. Clearly she knew something he didn’t. Azira hated when she refused to simply tell him what she saw, but Anathema always insisted it wouldn’t be responsible, seeing as they were only _ possibilities _. 

“I don’t get jealous. Besides, Crowley’d be a poor choice to be jealous over, with his habits.” 

The corners of the witch’s mouth gave an undeniable twitch, and she quirked a lithe shoulder yet again, “Just a warning.” 

“Right, well,” Azira rolled his eyes, “consider it heeded.” 

* * *

“You two look positively lost without your third stooge,” taunted an unwelcome voice. 

Azira felt a shiver up his spine as he raised his head to eye the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor standing in front of their table in the staff lounge. He and the Potions Master had been grading papers for Anathema’s classes before supper (a task she only designated to Azira as a last resort, as he left a scathing amount of grammatical corrections that took him ages to mark down no matter how many times he was reminded that it was completely unnecessary). His fear of Gabriel was only growing with the man breathing down his neck. When Crowley initially departed, Azira feared that he would be given a new task that contributed even more greatly to the incitation of war. Luckily, this had not been the case. Still he waited in nervous anticipation that felt suffocating when around the former auror. 

“We’re doing just fine. Or, I mean, we were before you came over here,” Anathema snipped in a mocking voice, head still craned over her parchment. She reserved her gaze for those she deemed worthy of respect. 

“Yes, er-,” Azira rushed after, forever anxious about his friends’ compulsion to taunt the man who had made his childhood a living nightmare, “Crowley’s bound to be back from his research trip any day now.” 

Indeed, the two weeks had been exceeded, and their friend was now taking his own personal days to continue his sabbatical. Anathema had already suffered through Azira’s infernal rambling about how it could be a good thing and also how it could be a bad thing. 

Gabriel’s right eyebrow twitched in amusement, and the corners of his mouth raised.

“Research trip?” he repeated with an enthusiasm that made it very difficult for Azira to withhold his irritation. He clapped his hands together, raising onto the balls of his feet before holding his arms behind his back. That smug grin was right where it belonged, “Oh yes, that’s what we’re telling students. I suppose it wouldn’t do for them to know their favorite professor had a nervous breakdown. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s not going to do something stupid now that he’s all alone and far from his home and friends.” 

“Such faith in me, Gabby! Awfully sweet of you, eh?”

At the sound of the familiar voice that for a full two and a half weeks had been yearned for, Azira failed to make any attempt to withhold looking like an ecstatic puppy. His eyes were wide as they shifted to soak in that beautiful face he’d missed so much, and he couldn’t be more pleased to see it as it should be. A well-known, cocky grin was on Crowley’s lips, and a new pair of sunglasses rested in front of his eyes. The smile was contagious, as Anathema adapted it and promptly began gathering the parchment off the table and sliding it into her bag. 

“Crowley. Finally decided to come back from vacation and do your job?” Gabriel mused.

Before Azira could remember that his friend might not be too pleased with him, Crowley rested one of his hands on each of his friends shoulders. 

“Naturally. If I’d left the students with you any longer I’d have come back to find they’d blasted each others brains out. Then we’d all be out of a job, and what a bummer that would be. Now, I know you don’t have any friends- _ so sad- _but I need to talk with mine. So. Whatever. Ciao.” 

Azira did a poor job of hiding his smirk at the dig as he stood with Anathema to join Crowley and followed him out into the hallway. 

“You look fantastic, Crowley,” Anathema said approvingly, smile audible in her voice.

“I do, don’t I?” he mused, an eyebrow quirked above his grin. 

And he absolutely did. There were no more shadows maring his face. His weight was back to his typical lanky form instead of the emaciated shape it had been declining into before. Again, he was putting effort into to the fashion statement he made with his robes. If Azira wasn’t quite mistaken, the typically fair skin was slightly sunburnt. The librarian was slightly devastated at the adorable spatter of freckles that sunlight had bestowed across Crowley’s face. Most notably to Anathema, his aura was back to its raging dark red, whipping about him and raring to go. Though really anyone could see he was back to his proper form. Students recognized it on sight, yelling out greetings that he would jeer back at, or running up to throw their arms around him. 

“Where were you?” Azira asked before realizing he was sounding very much like a chiding mother who had been agonizing over the unknown whereabouts of her child. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to take on a less fussy tone, “You look like you feel much better. I’m so glad to see it, Dear Boy.” 

“I was in Colombia. Did me great. Guess all I needed was some vitamin D,” he said with a wicked smirk as he somehow managed to saunter backwards towards the library, facing his friends.

“Is that a euphemism?” Anathema asked coyly, returning the grin.

“Look whose m- mmm- eh, mind is in the gutter, Device,” Crowley bantered back before shrugging and leaning forward with a cocked eyebrow, “But it’s more of a double entendre, really.” 

Azira rolled his eyes at the joke while Anathema laughed, following after the taller wizard as the three of them tracked through the library and to his office. He would have imagined that after Crowley showed up without a word and insisted that he needed to talk with them that he would be nervous. However, the pure-blood’s good mood was as infectious as ever, and it could be mistaken that they hadn’t fought at all. 

The trio filed into their respective seats inside the comfortable little room, and it was only now that the redhead seemed to become nervous. He stood, then sat again, then raised to his feet a second time and paced small circles as he arranged his thoughts.

“Right, I have three things I wanted to tell you,” he started, turning towards them as he strode back and forth in short bursts. He had spent the last three weeks figuring out what he wanted to say to these two friends who were so dear to him. Now it was time to say it, which was much more difficult. He’d half expected Azira to shun him again after their argument, but of course his angel was as kind and gracious as ever. He _ had _ said all he wanted was for Crowley to talk to him, so perhaps it made sense that he was listening now. 

“First, I’m sorry. I was a right bastard to both of you. Well- really all three things add up to ‘sorry i was a tosser’, but I figured I should just get that point across first. Second, Az, you were right.” 

The blonde’s eyebrows rose as he was regarded, and he attempted to exchange surprised looks with Anathema, who didn’t look surprised at all, before his brows lowered back down and furrowed in concern, “Did you hit your head in Colombia?”

“Har har, you’re hilarious, Angel,” Crowley retorted, a trace of his grin returning before his face fell back into a more serious frown, “Really, though. I had to get out of here. I was going mad. N- nn- not that you don’t know that. Anyway, it was wrong of me to be angry at you. I was- well like I said, I was a proper tosser.” 

If Azira’s eyes were soft for Crowley before, they were melted butter now. His lips drew into a gentle smile, his heart felt warm in his chest, and he exchanged a long look with his friend, wishing those blasted glasses weren’t in the way. 

“Lastly, er… ehm…,” Crowley hesitated, rocking back and forth on his feet and shoving his hands into his pockets. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze, drawing in a deep breath before rushing out, “ImayhavebeencorneredbyDeathEaterswhoattemptedtorecruitmeandwhenIrefusedtheytriggeredmeintomybreakdownbycastingthedarkmarkovertheschool.”

_ “What?” _ Anathema and Azira spat out in tandem, immediately talking over each other as they burst into concerns.

“They didn’t hurt you, did they? Did they touch you? Where did they corner you?” Azira started as Anathema was rushing out, “How did they get here at Hogwarts? Did they cast anything on you? I swear to fuck if we have a mole at this school I’ll kill them with my own hands.” 

Crowley endured the ranting with his teeth gritted and bared in a grimace and his nose wrinkled. By the time it ended, both his friends were descending into shouting at him for not telling them as soon as he’d been confronted by the dangerous group. 

“Okay. Okay, yes. I know. I know I should have told you. I wasn’t in my right mind, though. After I refused them and they threatened me, I had it in my head that if I told you, you’d be a part of it. That’s why I was avoiding you.”

“That’s imbecilic, Crowley,” Azira spat, face so drenched in disappointment that Crowley couldn’t bring himself to look him in the eye.

“Azira’s right. We’re adults. That are _ better equipped to fight than you are _, if you might recall. We could have helped,” Anathema chided.

Crowley huffed in indignant irritation, “Yeah, yeah. I know. Rub it in. Look, we’re a bit past that now. I can’t go back and tell you then, but I have a plan now. Just hear me out, yeah? The Death Eaters are looking for the heir of Slytherin- don’t look so panicked; they don’t know who he is, how old he is, what gender- they don’t have anything, really. I can write Beelzebub Musca today and agree to the search. I think, Angel, you should talk to your lot, tip them off so they can have you search too. We can buy a bit of time if we pose it like we’ve got to work against each other to find him. In the meantime we keep as much distance as we can from Young, and Anathema keeps a close eye on him, makes sure no one’s lurking around him.”

The two in their chairs traded worried glances and fell silent as they slipped into thought.

“Do you have to accept? Can’t we lead the Ministry to Musca?”

“Firstly, they’re Death Eaters, Angel. Of course I have to accept. The blighters don’t exactly ask nicely. And please, if my cousin were so easy to catch, they’d have been arrested years ago. But I’ve got some connections of my own now. If I gain their trust, act like I’m falling into it, we might be able to pin them down. It will take time, though. More connections. A new and better plan. This could keep them at bay for a few months.”

“It’s a dangerous plan,” Anathema commented disapprovingly.

“What other choice do we have?” 

The question rendered silence among the three of them for a time. Azira heaved a sigh.

“I suppose we must. But Crowley?”

“Mmm?”

“We do this _ together _. No secrets.”

“Right,” Crowley said, offering his angel a weak smile. It couldn’t go pear-shaped- not when they were at each others’ sides, “together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR LOVELIES <3 
> 
> Hopefully this alleviates some of the pain I inflicted on you poor souls last chapter. As always, thank you so much for the comments (I love them) and support! ;o; you guys are so awesome and it's such a treat to write for you. 
> 
> Feel free to yell at me on twitter @get_wrexed or on tumblr at GetWrexed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why is Crowley so happy?

Crowley was happy. Inordinately happy. Uncharacteristically happy. Unwaveringly happy. And it left the strangest taste in Azira’s mouth. 

It wasn’t that Azira didn’t want joy in his dearest person’s life. Of course he was glad to see him on the up-and-up. It was only that there was no explanation for it in the least, and whenever asked for one Crowley would dismiss it with an indubitable, “Just feeling better, I suppose,” with the same cadence as every lie he’d ever offered and secret he’d ever protected. With the pressure to protect Adam and the Death Eaters at his heels, Crowley had more right than ever to feel panicked and miserable. Yet even inconveniences and snide comments that would get his infamous temper to flare at the happiest times did nothing to so much as wobble this specific upswing. It was utterly out of character.

Azira had, much to his own shame, stooped to a rather pathetic attempt at espionage. It was a difficult task, however, as Crowley began orbiting around him like a moon around a planet, spending more time in the library than ever. Azira’d made quite the fool of himself trying to sneak after Crowley when he snuck away one afternoon, being easily caught and dragged into the innocent gathering of students the Herbology Professor was painting nails and gossiping with in the courtyard (“Worried about me, eh? Didn’t have to follow me. Could’ve just asked. We do this every Tuesday”). His consequence had been sporting a tacky glitter-blue nail polish that he didn’t have the heart to disappoint a dozen teenage girls by rejecting. The redhead had shown up to every meal. His mail was entirely inauspicious. His free time was devoted almost entirely to his research or his book, comedy records or music (almost always Queen) playing in the background. 

The investigation wasn’t entirely fruitless. Azira had found recent notes on time magic that Crowley had clearly attempted to hide from him, but that would hardly contribute to a constant state of happiness. 

It was over a week into the pure-blood’s return that the Muggle-born discovered that his friend wasn’t going back to his office some nights after leaving Azira’s. He only knew this because Crowley would show up the slightest bit late to breakfast with a carry-out cup from a coffee shop that certainly wasn’t in Hogsmeade. That wasn’t particularly odd, either. While he was doing this more frequently, the promiscuous being was no stranger to one-night stands and hardly breathed a word about them to his friends. It would have been more peculiar if he  _ did _ attempt to discuss it. 

The oddest thing by far Azira had discovered was Crowley, alone in a greenhouse, practicing  _ battle magic _ . 

“Crowley!” 

The Herbologist had jumped out of his skin at the intruding voice, lithe figure practically crumbling to the ground with relief upon clocking Azira near the door, “ _ Fuck,  _ Angel, you scared the hell out of me!”

“I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to frighten you. What are you doing?” Azira inquired, voice laced with concern as he worried his hands and took a few steps inside the structure.

“Well,” Crowley mumbled with a sheepish demeanor, scratching his head below the knot of tied-back hair, “I figured we might get stuck in an unsavory position soon. I should be prepared, shouldn’t I? I’ve been t- tr- trying- ehm, that is, trying to start dueling again.”

“With who?” Azira asked, sounding a bit more angry than he intended to. Still, he wanted to know who could possibly be as careless and irresponsible as to encourage such behavior from his traumatized friend. 

“‘S no one,” the redhead made the mistake of trying to dismiss. He became aware that this was a poor decision upon examining the irritated look on his best friend’s features. 

“Crowley,” Azira warned, “You promised no secrets.”

“I never promised that,” Crowley argued. It was technically true, but did little to contribute to digging himself out of this hole. Azira scoffed, and the Herbologist looked away in a cowardice he masqueraded as his typical nonchalance. 

“Fine, then,” the blonde struggled to moderate his own amassing frustration, “You promised we would do this together.”

“Okay. Fine. I give, inquisitor. No need to bring out the torture devices,” Crowley teased, raising his arms in a declaration of submission. He often attempted to use humor to disengage Azira during arguments despite being well aware that it only upset his friend more, “I’ve been practicing with an auror friend- I swear on Valencia. So you s- sss- see? I’m being responsible about it. You don’t need to worry.”

This brought pause to Azira’s line of questioning, but only for a moment. Worry replaced frustration, “And you’re okay? Not panicking with it?” 

“‘Course I am. Haven’t had a spar yet that didn’t prompt an anxiety attack. But neither my lot nor yours will be kind enough to sod off just because I’m not at my finest.”

“Dearest,” Azira commiserated, heart sinking into his stomach, “You shouldn’t force yourself, it’s not healthy.”

“Quit  _ worrying _ , Angel,” he attempted to disarm his beloved with a charming grin, “I’ve just got to get over it.” 

“If you could simply ‘get over’ it, I’m sure you’d have done. This doesn’t feel right. Whoever’s counsel you’re getting on this, I don’t trust it.” 

“You’re such a mother hen sometimes, you know that?” 

“Can you honestly blame me?” Azira begged to know, voice drenched with a cocktail of pain and incredulity. Crowley had attempted to forget current events so eagerly, but the blonde couldn’t. He was haunted by what he had witnessed. His heart still hadn’t mended from the suffering he’d seen. Even now, he withheld from forgiving himself for Crowley’s breakdown.

The question caused Crowley to hesitate- to analyze his own behavior and question it at last.

“No,” he yielded, “I can’t. But I can ask you to support me on this. Look- I’ve known this bloke for decades. He wouldn’t steer me wrong, and you have to admit we’d be safer if I could help defend us- defend the  _ kids _ .” 

They exchanged a long look- Crowley’s pleading and Azira’s agonized- before Azira heaved a defeated sigh.

“Fine. But Crowley, just- please, acknowledge your limit. I can’t-,” his voice broke for a moment and his eyes grew watery with the threat of tears, prompting a look of guilt and humility to flash across Crowley’s face as he listened to Azira finish relaying a message he’d already received, “I can’t see you go through that again. And don’t you dare think it’s because I don’t care! It’s not that. I care so much it  _ haunts _ me. It’s just that my heart… my heart’s just not strong enough for it, Crowley.  _ I’m _ not- I’m not str-”

He didn’t have the chance to finish before he was wrapped up with a surprising security into spindly arms, Crowley’s cool cheek pressed hard to the warmth of his ear. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Az. It won’t happen again, alright? I won’t let it get that far. I won’t make the same stupid mistakes. You don’t n- nnn- nnne- ugh, need to worry anymore. I’m going to be sure not to give you any reason to have to. Please, just trust me,” Crowley muttered, a soft urgency in his voice. 

The gesture, the words, and the pure-hearted intentions behind them warmed Azira’s heart, but they did nothing to stop his tears from falling. The fact of the matter was that Azira loved Anthony unconditionally, had the utmost faith in him, was devoted to staying by his side through anything, and truly believed he could accomplish whatever he set out to. But he didn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust him. Between the keeping of secrets, absolute lack of self-care, and blatant lying, Anthony hadn’t provided so much as a lick of what was needed to gain his Angel’s trust. 

“You have to earn that,” Azira said, throat clenching and mouth feeling dry as he managed it out. He felt  _ cruel _ for expressing the sentiment. He heard the crack he’d sent through Crowley’s heart at the brutal truth. His own heart sported a matching fissure as he felt the arms around him loosen. 

Steady hands shifted to take his upper arms, and Crowley pulled back to look him in the face. Both their heads were bowed in solemn thought, foreheads nearly touching. The fracture in Azira’s heart splintered wider as he watched Crowley put on his bravest face despite his adam’s apple bobbing up and down to withhold a sob. The redhead nodded his head sharply, and he put effort into sounding determined despite the physical strain on his vocal cords that his emotions incited, “I will, and I mean that, Angel- Azira. I promise. I will.” 

* * *

Crowley had been back at Hogwarts for a solid fourteen days now, and while it took his friends time to adjust to his almost unsettlingly cheerful demeanor, things had more or less returned to normal. One would think that awaiting the potential rise of the Heir of Slytherin and an oncoming war would keep them on their toes, but so far everything was according to plan. Azira’s orders had shifted from spying on Anthony to deterring him from finding Adam. 

So they’d slipped back into their typical routine, and there the trio clustered in usual fashion around the spare table in Anathema’s office. Azira was doing inventory and Anthony was working diligently on his book while their host graded the week’s assignments based off her notes of students’ executions of potion crafting. The witch had a mischievous energy about her today and had been trying to push both their buttons the entire afternoon. Until now, both had remained impervious to her attempts. 

The room had been silent for a good fifteen minutes save for a Fleetwood Mac record playing in the corner, which made it the ideal time for Anathema to make a spectacle. Without warning, she reached out, dipping her thumb beneath the edge of Crowley’s meticulously placed scarf and pressing it against the considerably sized hickey that was concealed there. 

“OW! What the  _ fuck _ is wrong with you?” he snapped, smacking her hand away. She seemed pleased to finally get a reaction out of him. 

“That’s quite the love-bite, Crowley. It’ll take ages to fade. What’s the next person you sleep with gonna think?” 

Azira rolled his eyes and returned his focus to his work after hearing the topic of conversation. It was nothing worth listening to. 

“I’d imagine he’d be a cocky bastard about leaving it there,” Crowley mumbled, forgetting himself. 

Azira’s head snapped back up, and he had no control over his shocked expression, his eyebrows shooting upwards. The redhead across him froze in the midst of rubbing his neck, looking quite caught as he all-too-obviously avoided any kind of glance in Azira’s direction. The blood drained from his face. 

“Crowley!” Anathema gasped, “Sleeping with the same man on a regular basis? You have a boyfriend and you’ve been holding out on us?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley rushed to cover his tracks while avoiding any technical lies, “there’s nothing odd about having a friend-with-benefits. I don’t  _ do _ relationships, you know that.” 

The reassurance should have comforted Azira, and he acted accordingly, lowering his head towards his parchment and pretending to absorb the information he’d written there. However, his mind was left reeling, his chest felt funny, and his jaw worked itself for no conceivable reason. Something didn’t feel right about it. 

“¿Ah sí? ¿Ni siquiera tendrías una relación con cierto bibliotecario?”

Crowley’s anxious pallor was relieved as a flood of blood rushed to her face and he scowled at his friend, hissing back, “Creo que sabes que el bibliotecario en cuestión me ha rechazado más de una vez.”

“Yes, cheerio. The librarian in the room is well aware of what the Spanish word for librarian is. You might as well have said my name. What are you two going on about?”

“Nothing,” they lied in tandem, Anathema in a cheery, sing-song voice and Crowley in a menacing growl as he glared daggers into her. 

“Soooo, Emiliano Heller writing you letters about how he counts the hours between your meetings and can’t think about you without smiling is entirely sexual in nature?

If the name was a search word, it sent Azira’s mind spinning through its repository. He knew that person- hardly though. Emile had been Slytherin’s seventh year keeper and quidditch captain Azira’s second year. Quite a showboat, if the Muggle-born recalled correctly. 

“That’s-,” Crowley hissed, shoving his finger an inch in front of her nose, “Yes. What, pray tell, are you doing  _ digging through my mail?” _

“I’m not. I get visions about the lives of the people close to me,” she blinked innocently, “Anyway, that’s a strange sentiment to send to a purely sexual partner.”

Anthony cursed how hot the room felt it was becoming. He rushed to think up an excuse as naturally as he breathed air, “Not when you’re as good a lay as I am. Of course the poor bloke can’t stop thinking about it.” 

Azira found himself entirely invested in Anathema’s line of questioning, and where Crowley simply wanted her to  _ shut up _ , Azira was quite eager for her to keep going. 

“Right, right. So. You don’t do relationships. Then you’re free on Valentine’s Day tomorrow?”

“¡Cállate la boca!”

“¿Por qué? Pareces nervioso, Crowley. Casi como si estuvieras mintiendo. Interesante.”

“Ahem,” Azira interjected. 

They both turned their heads towards him, then back at each other. Blue eyes bounced between them as they had a silent argument with only expressions- a battle of wills. 

Crowley’s fingers were itching to jinx her all the way to Hell, but such an action would be an obvious admission of guilt- an indication that he was hiding something. He and Azira had just had a conversation about trust, and he wasn’t keen to forget it. To own up that he was keeping a secret and refuse to share it would be a declaration that Azira  _ couldn’t _ trust him. Crowley made several odd, strangled noises as he went through war with himself, suppressing the urge to scream in frustration. He didn’t want to appear as anything but completely available to Azira at any moment lest the blonde change his mind and decide he wanted Crowley after all. For him to know about Emile- well, that would undoubtedly complicate the matter, but thanks to his obnoxious baby sister figure (who Crowley was feeling a growing desire to throttle), what choice did he have?

He inhaled sharply through his nose and gritted his teeth, vocal chords fighting against him tooth and nail as he barely managed to express, “... What I meant was I don’t do  _ exclusive _ relationships.”

“AHA!” Anathema cheered at her success, jamming a finger into his face that he immediately smacked away. She didn’t seem to mind, preening at her success, “So when did it start?”

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“I’m just curious how long you’ve been keeping this secret from your dearest friends,” she claimed with a guiltless expression. 

“It hasn’t been a  _ secret _ , I just didn’t- uuuurraagh! We reconnected last summer, but nothing really happened until Colombia,” Crowley spat bitterly, slumped down in his chair as he brooded in defeat. 

“Isn’t he like, your brother though?”

“What? No!” he hissed, “He’s eight years older. He was hardly ever around by the time I came through, even for holidays. He works internationally.”

“What’s he like?” she asked, resting her chin on a fist. Whereas a moment ago Azira had wanted her to keep going, he now very dearly wished she might stop. 

“It doesn’t matter! It’s nothing serious!” Crowley repeated at a shout, throwing his hands in the air. 

“And yet you’ve been  _ awfully _ happy since the two of you got together.”

“Aaaaaagh! Is that a  _ crime  _ now? Fuck this! I don’t need to sit here for this- this  _ interrogation! _ ” he finally erupted, leaving half his things as he snatched only what was nearest and stormed out in a huff. 

Azira had only half-heard the last bit of the conversation, and his eyes were glazing over as they gazed off into the corner of the room, surrendering focus to his thoughts alone. An international auror? How was he supposed to compete with that? 

_ You’re not, _ he thought to himself in frustration,  _ You’re not about to be with Crowley. You can’t. Not when you don’t even trust him.  _

That thought didn’t make him feel any better. He realized with a mixture of self-loathing and guilt that it wasn’t merely about being with Crowley- it was about him wanting Crowley to want him more than anyone else. 

_ How selfish is that? That shouldn’t matter. Crowley is happy. That’s what matters. _

And yet that didn’t put him any more at ease than the previous thought. He’d never put much thought to Crowley’s affairs before. It hadn’t mattered. If he had felt any emotion towards the men and women that the pure-blood had busied himself with, it was sympathy. Even with an entirely chaste, platonic relationship, Crowley had imprinted himself on Azira’s mind and heart so quickly, and if Azira was being honest with himself (a thing he quite detested), he had fallen in love with him hard and fast. Crowley was charming and brilliant and hilarious and amazing and impossible to quit. To get to experience all that topped off with  _ intimacy, _ all before losing him to the past sounded like a dreadful, heart-wrenching, sordid affair that Azira wasn’t sure he himself would ever recover from if given the experience. Thinking about the mysterious ‘Emiliano’ getting what Azira currently had with his dearest Anthony incited enough turmoil on its own, but thinking about him getting everything he could only  _ fantasize _ about having with him as well? It set off an entirely unfamiliar, foreign arrangement of sensations.

It churned in his gut, and he felt a bit sick. His teeth ground together, his jaw worked against itself, and his brain was sent into a tailspin. His stomach simultaneously felt like it’d been turned to rocks and like it was a roaring fire with smoke and ash and little flaming sparks rising upwards and forming a swirling, dark mass that hung heavy in his chest. His lungs heaved to work through the presence. His heart felt entirely aimless in the midst of it all and found itself seeking refuge somewhere in his throat. He’d never felt anything like this before. 

What in God’s name  _ was _ this?

“Earth to Azira?”

It was only now the blonde realized a hand was being waved in front of his face. 

“Sorry, Dear Girl,” he managed out, “I lost myself in thought for a moment, there.” 

“So how about that? Wiley old serpent thinks he’s so slick.” 

“Indeed. It’s quite difficult to win a battle of wits against him. You rather pulled one over on him.”

“So what do you think?” she asked, trying to pose it as an innocent question, but there was a bit of mischief pulling at the corner of her mouth. 

“About what?”

“About Crowley’s new boyfriend?” 

“I couldn’t say. I don’t know him,” Azira said, surprising himself at how much more  _ bitter _ it sounded than he intended. 

A grin that reminded Azira of the Cheshire Cat took over Anathema’s features as she hummed, “I thought you don’t get jealous, Azira? I thought Crowley would be a ‘poor choice’ to feel jealous over?”

“I don’t- he’s not- I can’t help- you’re up to  _ no good _ today, young lady.” 

“Ohhhh, I got ‘young lady’d. And here I thought you said my warning was heeded.” 

“What are you getting at?” 

“I’m getting at the fact that you could end this all right now if you wanted to. You know the only reason he didn’t say anything is because he didn’t want you thinking he’d moved on from you, right? The candle’s still lit for you.” 

Azira considered the idea and found calm return to him bit by bit as he repeated the sentiment to himself. Of course Crowley still loved him. It’s not like one could just turn off their love for another- especially not with the intensity that Crowley had exhibited it towards him. He hadn’t stopped exhibiting it, even now. If anything he’d only spent more time with Azira since his return. What were a few stolen mid-night hours with some stranger that had only just now waltzed in?

“But I wouldn’t sleep on it too long,” she continued, a devious look in her eye, “Can’t keep him on a line forever, Azira. That other bait might start looking like a more appetizing catch. Especially when it’s tall, muscled, Colombian, international auror bait. Trust me, he is  _ muy guapo. _ ” 

The wizard sucked his teeth, feelings of envy roaring right back to life again, “My Dear Girl, I do believe I’ve had quite enough of you, today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to the wonderful @MisaAbadeer !!! If you ever see Spanish in my fic, it is only not horrendous because she is kind enough to translate for me! 
> 
> This chapter is a bit short, only because I decided to cut the original chapter in half (I just couldn't justify a 10k chapter lol). But that means *drum roll* the next chapter is already finished, and you will be getting it very shortly!~
> 
> Thank you for your lovely support, as always <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's a damsel in distress after a night out gone south. Azira rescues both her and her evening.

It was a rather nippy February evening when Azira maneuvered his way through the familiar maze of Soho streets. As had been the case so many nights of late, worries of Crowley melded into his mind. His colleague certainly hadn’t cut his time short with Azira in any capacity. As was typically true of when he was in a good mood, he spent more and more time with the librarian. Hell, he hadn’t even made the slightest effort to distance himself to an appropriate platonic level in matters of emotion or physicality. The slippery serpent would still vie for a hand-hold or cuddle in the right moments. He would treat Azira like the universe revolved around him. Whenever they were together, it was as if Emiliano Heller didn’t exist at all. 

Still, Saturday evenings in particular had become disparagingly absent of the zesty redhead’s presence. The topic of Emile hadn’t been breached again by either party since the tense encounter in Anathema’s office, but the subject had stuck to Azira’s mind like an adhesive charm. He was driving himself mad wondering what the Herbologist must be up to with his mysterious new beau and if Crowley shared the same fondness and treatment with him. As fun as said madness could be, Azira found himself shockingly uninterested in pacing back and forth in his office for hours, reading and re-reading the same page of the same book over and over again as his mind insisted on torturing itself. Thus he’d began finding distractions of his own- off Hogwarts grounds.

Tonight would be a good night. He was determined to find it an evening free of worry and jealousy. Azira decided he was being quite silly; Anathema and Anthony were hardly his only friends. He found himself now with a fun meeting planned amongst Muggle friends and a large brown paper bag of alcohol tucked into his arm. 

The streets were packed on the Saturday night, neon lights blinking and paper lanterns fluttering in the icy breeze overhead. A cacophony of loud music from several different clubs and pubs fought one another for dominance, the discord only growing with drunken patrons attempting to shout over it to communicate with their parties. Gents seemed bundled up well enough, and Azira couldn’t help but sympathize with the several more women who were much more scantily clad for their nights out, warm coats doing little to guard their exposed legs. 

Azira himself always preferred a night in to some troublesome outing, even when planning to socialize. However, he did enjoy people-watching. While reading in solitude had its merits, in his time off he sometimes liked to go to nearby cafes and parks so he might observe wholesome and diverse social dynamics and peoples when glancing up from the pages of his books. He felt it contributed to the ambiance of certain pieces of literature. He often took enjoyment comparing books to real life, and he soaked in the scenes around him as he made his way back to his bookshop. A dozen different events and groups brought a dozen different titles to mind, enriching the narratives’ impacts on his life even long after reading some of them. 

It seemed, much to his dismay, his best friend was still on the brain as he spotted a shivering, redheaded, lithe little thing perched on the concrete stoop of a building across the way. It wasn’t until he witnessed her belittling some drunken catcaller, sending him scurrying off in embarrassment while his friends followed, mercilessly teasing, after him and then eyed the spectacles on her face that the resemblance became far too uncanny.

“Anthonia? Is that you?” he called, looking both ways before scurrying over to her. The street was undoubtedly gusty and cold, but he found himself growing hotter as he approached her. She was wearing a scanty excuse of a dress. It was a dark purple velvet number that was hardly long enough to cover what it ought to, thus her long, thin legs were on full display. Crowley in this form had little in the way of breasts, but the modest cleavage she did have was boasted through black leather straps that formed a pentagram over it. A matching black choker encased her thin neck that was made only more enticing by the few red strands that fell down against it from her pinned-up hair. Azira tried not to change his expression as he clocked the dark purple bites accenting her throat as well.

Every step forward seemed to make Azira’s temperature raise another degree. Never before had he seen such a great expanse of Crowley’s skin, and as he gained ground, the slender figure became more defined. He found himself trying to shove his mind away from how this image would contribute to his more self-indulgent fantasies as he spotted the intoxicating smattering of freckles that blessed her shoulders, chest, and upper arms.

“Dear Girl, you look-” 

“Like a man in a d-d-dress?” she hissed through chattering teeth.

The voice was mumbled and miserable, and it wasn’t until Azira looked up at her face and examined the lines of mascara running down from beneath her glasses that he began piecing her disposition together. It was an alarmingly stark contrast to the cheery Crowley that had blessed his life the last few weeks, and Azira did his best to keep the immediate worry that rushed to him at bay.

“Did someone say that to you?” he more demanded than asked, ready to curse whatever foolish soul had dared utter the foul falsehood.

“Not exactly,” she agonized, trying to sulk in her feelings of dejection despite those blasted pixies flitting about her stomach at the anger dripping from Azira’s voice. 

“Well, good. Because there’s not a lick of truth in it,” he assured in a softer tone now that he was no longer preparing to bring down the wrath of a thousand suns. He leaned forward to look her in the face, sincerity traced on his features as he smiled and soothed, “You’re the jammiest bit of jams.” 

He got a twitch of Crowley’s lips at that and counted it down as a small victory.

“What-t-t d-d-does that even mean, you great loon?” 

“You’re a fit subject for the pleasant songs of youthful poets to acquaint the world with,” he tried again.

A bit of blood rushed to her face, giving it the slightest tinge of pink to relieve its pallor as she whined, “Can’t-t-t you see I’m brooding, Angel? Quit t-t-trying to make me feel better.”

“I’m not! Not yet, at least,” Azira insisted as he set the bag of liquor on the ground with care and took off his khaki jacket to wrap around Crowley’s bony, quivering shoulders.

She nearly melted into the heating charm the coat held, marveling at how despite knowing the same charms as Azira, his always seemed so much more _ potent _ . It was like using brand-name matte lipstick instead of cheap drugstore gloss. When reserved for her, the spells felt personalized and unique- precious little keepsakes that sent the reminder that Azira _ cared _ about her bouncing through her mind and sending her heart aflutter every minute she had the privilege of basking in their effects. Crowley wasted no time in sliding her arms through the sleeves and hugging the excess fabric close. It was a bit big on her thin frame, which only served to make it cozier. The more substantial figure found a seat next to her on the stoop, not minding a bit as she greedily slid closer and wrapped an arm through his to bum even more heat off his side. 

They sat in silence for a while. Crowley always hated knowing someone was waiting for her to speak, even felt like it was a bit of a curse, but Azira had this amazing way of making it feel like a blessing. Perhaps it was just Crowley’s own hunger for Azira’s care and attention satisfied. There was no expectation there, truly. Only respect, patience, and warmth. Through tinted lenses she watched Azira’s soft face react to whatever scenery was lucky enough to garner his attention in her place.

It wasn’t until he heard something between a scoff and a snort from his companion that Azira finally turned his attention on Crowley, finding a reluctant look of amusement capturing her features.

“How do you know?” she asked, voice dripping with a cocktail of suspicion and flirtation. 

“Know what, Dearest?” Azira was pleased to no longer hear the chattering of her teeth.

“Every time I’m miserable you pop up out of the woodwork and make things right. How d’you do it? You got some kind of… of… I dunno- emotional tracking charm on me?” 

“Of course not, Dear Girl. I wouldn’t violate your privacy like that. I suppose it just happens by coincidence. You are in my neck of the woods tonight, after all.” 

“Nah, I don’t buy it.”

“Then…,” Azira paused, observing distress return to Crowley’s features as she watched a couple arguing across the street. He had to wonder if something similar had happened between her and Emile. It took him a moment to remember that he was in the middle of devising an explanation for her, “I don’t know, a gut feeling? Spidey-senses.”

“‘Spidey senses’?” she asked, turning her attention back to him with a defined, arched eyebrow visible over her glasses.

“It’s from a comic book series- Spiderman.”

“What the hell is a spider man? Sounds terrifying. Muggles think up the weirdest things.”

Azira couldn’t withhold a well-meaning laugh at her misunderstanding. For the first time in the last several minutes, Crowley’s hand made an appearance from the confines of the jacket, tugging at the edge of the paper bag and leaning forward to peak inside. 

“Someone helping you drink all this liquor or do we n- nnneh- need to have a chat?” 

“Game night with my summer book club.” 

“Ever the wild child. Aren’t you, Angel?”

“Well we can’t all-... wait, what exactly _ are _ you doing in Muggle London?”

“Freezing to death.”

“I’m sure that wasn’t the plan.” 

“Neither was getting scorned all night, having a huge, stupid argument, storming off- forgetting my wand, purse, and jacket in the process- and getting lost. But alas, here we are,” Crowley droned with an unmistakably bitter tinge to her voice.

Azira felt incredible guilt for the rush of relief that overcame him upon hearing that Crowley’s honeymoon phase was already meeting an untimely end. He felt a more general awfulness for his poor friend after learning about her miserable night. 

“I’m so sorry to hear it, Dear Girl. Truly. Do you need help finding your way back?”

“Fuck no. I’m not going back there. I’ll probably combust on the spot if I have to look at that blasted thickheaded bastard’s stupid- er,” she stopped, suddenly remembering her own self-enforced rule of never discussing her relationship with Azira, “That is, I’d rather not be around that lot ‘til tomorrow. I’ll slum it out until then.” 

“You absolutely will not ‘slum it out’,” he protested, finding the notion ridiculous, “Why don’t you come back to the bookshop with me?”

The look of hope on Crowley’s face was hard to miss, no matter how hard she tried to hide it with an uninterested facade. She cleared her throat before dismissing, “You don’t want me to crash your book-nerd party.” 

“I don’t know a single better party crasher,” Azira bantered back in a coquettish manner, coaxing a grin from Crowley despite her brooding disposition. 

“You make a fair point. I guess I have no choice but to undoubtedly make you and your friends’ night much more interesting. Always the life of the party, me. Just can’t turn it off,” she mused, pretending to be greatly burdened by the matter and topping it off with a theatrical sigh for emphasis. She stood up with a bit of a wobble as she adjusted to the support of her numb, shivering legs, offering out her hands and yanking Azira up next to her, “Let’s get out of this bloody cold, then.” 

The way back to the bookshop was slow as the somewhat cold-blooded witch struggled to get her feet to cooperate quite the way she needed them to. Azira politely occupied the time with chatter, as he always did, allowing the witch to intertwine her arm with his own as he told her about each member of his book club that she would soon meet. 

The cozy flat above the bookshop brought forth a wave of relief for Crowley. She’d always tried to pretend she wasn’t sentimental enough to need a home, but the reality was she’d always found one in Hogwarts. Lately, with threats of spies and the surmounting pressure to be one, her home was feeling less and less safe and secure. This bookshop had only hosted her once before, but it was Azira’s. Thus, she felt more at home here than she likely could anywhere else in the world. 

After stepping into the bathroom to rid herself of any evidence of emotional distress, the redhead was quickly at work helping set up the living room for guests. She took up the task to set up a charcuterie platter and spread of sliced fruit with far more proficient hands than Azira could have possibly expected from the food-avoidant witch. 

“Hey hey, Azira!” shouted out a voice from the door. 

“Hullo!” he cheered back, rushing from the kitchen where Crowley was helping herself to a glass of wine and into the entryway of his home. Excited chatter filled the homey flat as two men and a woman poured in through the door, exchanging greetings and embraces with the Muggle-born. 

The redhead strutted out of the kitchen without a care in the world, giving a two fingered salute to the figures at the doorway and being just considerate enough to offer a lazy, “Oy, Azira’s mates. Crowley. Pleasure and all that,” before slinking over the arm of an armchair and sprawling out on the furniture with legs crossed, dress scandalously sliding up to reveal her upper thigh as she did so. The woman and one of the men immediately turned stark, contrasting shades of red and seemed to experience mental errors that kept them from forming any manner of cohesive reply. The remaining stranger, a mussy-haired, bespectacled ginger in a graphic tee-shirt, furrowed his brow in scrutiny.

“I hope you all don’t mind Crowley is joining us! Anthonia, this is Elsie and Dhruv,” Azira introduced, gesturing to the two tomato-red individuals, “and this is Oscar.” 

“I, um, th- uh- thou- thought Crowley was a man?” Elsie managed out. If she weren’t better at reading people, Anthonia would think she’d found a fellow stutterer, but hardly a glance at the woman’s body language was needed to see she was simply infatuated and quite jarred by it. 

“Not today,” Crowley crooned, a grin on her lips, before indulging in a sip of wine. 

“We’re in the middle of a campaign. Hardly a good time to add another player,” Oscar complained as he analyzed Crowley right back. Clearly, he was not as accepting of the presence as his cohorts. The witch raised an entertained brow. She always did love a challenge. 

“Oh, you worry too much, Oscar,” Azira reassured, amusing Crowley to great lengths at the irony, “We don’t have enough time to continue the campaign tonight, anyways. I’ve prepared a one-shot, instead. Besides, Crowley’s very sharp, she’ll catch on in no time.” 

“Hmm. Interesting outfit for a night in of Dungeons and Dragons. Bit overkill,” Oscar commented, and the witch had to wonder who, exactly, pissed in this Muggle’s porridge this morning. It was followed by a thought about why Muggles would have a game with such a magical sounding name.

“The outfit was for a night of clubbing and fooling poor unsuspecting blokes into buying me endless drinks, but the night went,” she paused to raise one pointed, glittering black nail, swirling the wine glass safely within the confines of the rest of her long digits, “tits up, as it were. Lucky for me, Azira here is my own personal hero. Can sense a damsel in distress from a mile away.” 

“Oh, I would hardly say that, Dearest,” Azira insisted with a slight blush blessing his cheeks and a shy smile gracing his lips. Crowley had to hide a grin as Oscar snapped his head towards the blonde with a weighted incredulity at the endearment reserved solely for the witch.

“Don’t be modest, _ Angel _ ,” Crowley toyed, adding weight to her own name for Azira. The wizard overlooked it as she knew he would, but she succeeded in earning the confused glance from Oscar that she had been aiming for. She didn’t get jealous when spotting a potential suitor of Azira’s- she didn’t need to. For as little confidence as she had, she was well aware that she was on the tippity-top of her beloved’s pecking order. Anyone Azira dated would be gone in a snap with only a few well placed words of concern from Crowley. She did, however, get _ possessive _ and had fun with it when she had the luxury to. 

The newcomers settled in around the coffee table, all taking shots at the insistence of Crowley after a particular taunting temptation of, “It’s here. We’re here. It’s Saturday night. We have no responsibilities, and surely- playing games _ drunk _ is more fun a challenge than playing them _ sober. _But if you’re afraid you can only get a leg up if you don’t drink, then by all means, don’t.”

There was a bit of chatter as the friends caught up before the game, in which Elsie asked the witch if she was a model. Crowley found Elsie herself to be a cute young thing, with large brown eyes and long black box-braids intertwined with blue accents. If she weren’t Azira’s friend and Crowley had found her while out and about, she likely would have tried to pick her up.

Crowley hosted a flirtatious grin (she couldn’t control her urges to flirt and her friends knew it) and rested her free hand over the leather straps on her chest, “Aren’t you qu- qu- eh, quite the flatterer? You could be out getting free drinks of your own, you know, easy as anything. No. I’m a- a botanist.”

“Wow you’re like a real life Poison Ivy,” Elsie whispered more to herself than to Crowley with enrapturement traced over her features. Azira let out a hearty laugh at the comparison, finding it all too accurate.

“Quite. And just as crafty. Watch yourself,” the wizard warned with a lopsided smile before clocking his colleague’s slight confusion, “She’s a villainess from another comic book- Batman.”

“Batman, Spiderman, what’s with the obsession of meshing animals and men?” she asked, flabbergasted by the odd Muggle standard of fantasy she was learning. 

“Oh! They don’t look like any kind of hybrid. They both look like men. Their costumes just reflect the respective species,” Dhruv rushed to explain, big brown eyes glimmering under bushy eyebrows as he eagerly jumped at the chance to talk to the beautiful woman. He wasn’t usually so lucky. 

“So… they’re grown men that dress up as a bat and a bug?” Crowley asked in piqued amusement.

“You’re sure she’s going to be able to play, Azira?” Oscar asked with an unmistakable tinge of snide that went straight over his host’s head.

“I’ve never encountered a game I couldn’t. So _ sweet _ of you to worry,” Crowley insisted, narrowing her eyes. The action was perceptible even with the glasses on her face, “What are the rules?” 

She quickly learned the question had been a loaded one as the newcomers took turns attempting to explain different facets of the game. For each of their rambles, Azira was able to translate in one or two sentences what Crowley actually needed to know. An initial sense of anxiety overcame Crowley as she learned that the core concept was improvisation and role-playing. While she didn’t doubt the capabilities of her imagination, she’d never tried her hand at manifesting works of fiction past elaborate lying, and all former experiences of role-playing, no matter how well done, had been reserved for the bedroom. Still, she managed to create a character she was relatively proud of; a smooth-talking, Chaotic-Neutral, tiefling druid. 

Azira gave a short set-up, evidently not playing as one of them but instead as a omni-present narrator called a ‘dungeon master’ (which earned a couple cheeky jokes from Crowley). 

“So everyone remember, have fun. And I must caution you, more as a friend than a DM- don’t trust Crowley.”

“_ Angel _,” Crowley crooned, batting her eyelashes in a depiction of innocence. Azira picked up the action behind the glass even if his friends didn’t, “Are you saying I’m dishonest?” 

“You absolut- she absolutely is. She’s a silver-tongued minx and you should all know.” 

“But you always believe me,” Crowley argued. 

“Yes, and you often make me look like quite the fool for it, don’t you?” Azira asked with a raised brow and a small grin, despite himself.

“How can I not? You’re so gullible; it’s too tempting. I just like having a bit of fun with you, Az, that’s all,” she flirted with a grin she couldn’t contain, chin resting in a palm and fingernails delicately framing her angled face. 

_ “Exactly,” _ he noted, “So you’ve heard it from the source, everybody. She’s a wiley demon and you’d do well to stay on your toes.” 

The campaign was off to a bit of a choppy start as Crowley needed to be taught mechanics and reminded that she was meant to stay in character a good few times. Once she got the hang of it, she decided it was officially the dorkiest thing she’d ever been reduced to in her entire thirty eight years of life. Still, she had to admit it was fun, and Azira’s well-crafted, ingenious story-telling made the avoidance of immersion an impossible task. Crowley was quite impressed to see that despite the concoction of a ‘magical’ world, Azira didn’t even toe a line near violating the Statute of Secrecy. All content was almost entirely original. 

There was a good few times Crowley fooled the entire party, even losing the trust of Dhruv and Elsie, but by the end it was revealed that her tricks and deception had been to their benefit nearly the entire time. Azira noted to himself that her character was hardly a character at all; she was merely playing as herself. He bent the story a few times in a futile attempt to teach her that for all her sneaky ways, she still needed the help of all her campaign members in order for them to succeed, no matter how tactful and well-intentioning she was. 

The group did defeat their final opponent, however Crowley was a bit pouty that in her careless daring-do, she’d gotten her character killed. Dhruv soon joined her. The two bonded over drinks and jeered as they spectated the last bit of the game, joking back and forth and making Elsie and Azira both break character a few different times to reluctantly laugh. 

“This is too fun!” Elsie argued, “let’s get a selfie before we get any more hammered.”

“A… a what?” Crowley asked hopelessly, looking to Azira. 

“She said a selfie,” he mentioned, deciding to try to do damage control before Crowley was taken off guard in a way that would garner too much suspicion from the Muggles, “You know, like with the _ forward-facing cameras _ that _ mobiles _ have?”

“You’re very descriptive today, Azira,” Oscar identified, eyeing Crowley as the source of it. 

“Oh yes. Er, I’m still in the narration mindset”

Dhruv got out his mobile, extending it before him to get a picture with the group that was spread out behind him. Anthonia had enough mind to wait for the picture to be taken before losing her absolute shit.

“Ohhh that’s bloody brilliant! Gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme!” she insisted, making grabby hands in Azira’s direction and appearing very pleased when Azira obliged her childish demands, took out his archaic flip phone, and pulled open the camera app. The witch took it with an eager snatch, standing and having a bit of fun with the process of squeezing into the space between Azira and Oscar- which was no space at all. She was practically spilled into the librarian’s lap, bare thighs spread over his trousers. The position left the librarian wondering what good deed he’d done for God to allow this to happen, and he had to invest great care in not thinking too hard about the sensation of her body pressed to his own in this new and unfamiliar way. She wrapped her arm around his neck, squeezed her torso against his, and took at least ten snapshots with him before leaving his lap painfully devoid of redheaded witch, sauntering off somewhere else in the flat. Azira’s friends were well aware he was gay (by his own declaration, his whole life), and yet here he was, before them, flirting with this incredibly mysterious woman. Oscar did nothing to hide his annoyance, wondering where on earth his crush even found such a bizarre and clueless person.

“Where are you going, my dear?” the blonde asked when he’d regained control of his breath, finding her fascination with the very simple technology to be quite cute. 

“Finding better lighting!” she shouted from the kitchen. 

“Good luck using that fossil! What happened to yours?” Dhruv asked, writing off the sharp change in Crowley’s attention as her being drunk.

“Oh. Just- er- left it at the club with the rest of my stuff,” she called back.

“I'm not ready to go home yet. But we hardly have time for another one-shot,” Elsie sighed, changing the subject as she was too buzzed to think too hard on the situation.

“We could play a board game?” Azira offered.

“Or poker,” Crowley’s head popped out from around the corner, a devious grin in place.

“Poker sounds fun!” Dhruv immediately jumped for the idea.

“You don’t want to play poker with Crowley,” Azira warned, “She will positively rob you.” 

“You make me sound like such a wicked thing, Angel,” Crowley hummed with a coy grin as she returned to her seat, handing Azira back his phone now that she had a temptation to accomplish. 

“You _ are _ a wicked thing,” he chided. Instead of successfully admonishing his friend, he sent a thrilling shiver shooting up her spine. 

“Fine, we won’t play with real money,” Crowley ceded before mumbling mischievously, “but maybe with _ clothing _.” 

She was quite buzzed now, and couldn’t help but try to tempt her crush into a scenario that she might _ finally _ see some of that blessed body she’d lusted after desperately for years now. The most she’d ever had the privilege of the occasional exposure to was his forearms if it was hot enough for him to hitch up the sleeves of his robes. 

“You’re only wearing a dress and a choker!” Elsie squeaked, scandalized by the idea of the woman before her only in pants.

“And she wouldn’t end up removing a thing, leaving us all looking like fools,” Azira rolled his eyes, “no stakes.”

“Aeeeegh, no fun,” Crowley pouted, “Drinking game version of p- puh- eh, poker. It’s easy. I’ll teach you. Final offer” 

Azira narrowed his eyes, hardly having time to glance at his friends for approval before Oscar retorted a determined, “I’m in. Doesn’t seem fair to play with sunglasses.” 

“Aaaawhh, c’mon now- professional players are allowed glasses. I’m keeping mine. Not my fault you’re all ill-prepared.”

“You’re on!” Dhruv jeered with a lopsided grin, quickly backed up by a hearty nod from Elsie. 

Elsie was quickly found to be the worst of the five players, often needing to ask for help. The wizard was surprised (but felt his heart melt to mush) when Crowley whispered tips and explanations into her ear, not even taking the slightest bit of advantage of the situation despite being a wolf aiding a sheep. If anything, she put the Muggle’s advancement before her own. Dhruv had good instincts. Oscar held his own, having a decent knowledge of Azira’s tells, but in his attempt to resist every one of Crowley’s manipulations he fell right into them (much to his own amassing frustration and her growing amusement). 

By the last round the other three had placed their bets and Azira and Crowley were the only two left to do so. All five players had spilled onto the floor over the course of the game, too invested and drunk to stay in their seats. Azira and Crowley were practically nose to nose. Blue eyes carefully appraised a completely calm, barricaded face. The witch raised an amused eyebrow.

“Trying to figure me out, Angel?”

“Oh, Dearest, I don’t need to. I know you better than you know yourself.” 

“Really? You think so? You’re walking on dangerous ground here, Fell.”

“You can’t trip me up, Crowley. I’m onto you. You, however, seem a bit lost on placing your bet. Are you worried I’ve bested you?” 

“Oh, Please. I’ve figured you all out.”

“You haven’t figured out anything.”

“I have, too. You’ve got nothing, and I’m all in,” she declared triumphantly, pushing all her makeshift chips (tokens from another board game) to the center of the coffee table.

Dhruv and Elsie both earned secret little grins while observing the shameless flirting occurring before them. Oscar hardly shared the sentiment, rolling his eyes at almost every bounce of banter back and forth. 

“Ah, shit,” Crowley mumbled as Azira went all in as well, and they all revealed their cards. The librarian smiled innocently up at his friend as he displayed a straight flush. Clearly, he’d been biding his time and amassing intel after being fooled by Crowley countless times in matters of deceit. It was no wonder that by now he’d figured out all her tells. 

“Well done, you,” the redhead caved, grinning and feeling quite glad she was wearing sunglasses as she gazed at Azira with unbridled adoration. She ceded to give him well-earned applause alongside his friends before they all took their loser’s shots of tequila. 

It was an ungodly hour of the morning, now. Farewells were exchanged and Crowley was surprised to find that she had quite taken a liking to the little band of Muggles, even enjoying the rival-like dynamic established by Oscar. After they’d left, the magical pair agreed to put cleaning off until the morning; the extent to which they were sloshed deterred them from accomplishing even the most basic of actions, standing straight up being one of them. 

Azira flicked the first Spiderman film onto the telly, figuring Crowley ought to get more exposure to Muggle pop media if she was going to spend time amongst them, and settled down on one side of the sofa with a book in his lap. Crowley kicked off the strappy black high heels that imprisoned her feet and tossed them somewhere over her shoulder without care, slouching down on the free space of the same furniture with a boisterous groan. Glamorous, deep purple-framed shades clattered onto the coffee table, revealing golden eyes from their hiding. Pins were hastily yanked from red locks and curls shook down to Crowley’s mid-waist. The frankly bizarre concept of a film kept her attention for a time, but with alcohol having rubbed away at her typical self-control, her gaze shifted, loaded with hopeless adoration, toward the object of her affections. 

She loved his profile. Loved every angle of him, really. Loved his face. Loved watching him read. Loved identifying the micro-expressions that flashed across his face. Loved that crinkle in his brow when he focused that was so slight nearly anyone would miss it. Loved _ him _ . Typically she could contain her infatuation to a socially acceptable degree, but the buzzing of booze made it impossible. All at once she found herself quite affronted that he wasn’t directing that focus towards _ her. _

Crowley stretched out her long, lithe legs, sliding her back down the cushioning of the gaudy old sofa and slipping her feet into Azira’s lap before toeing the book out of his hands and onto the floor in one smooth, shameless, deliberate action.

“Oops,” she remarked, a devilish grin on her lips. 

Azira gave her a knowing look while his hands were left extended and empty over Crowley’s feet. He was hardly able to keep the impression of being irritated as the beginnings of an amused smirk played on his own mouth. Crowley’s position was quite lewd, arms draped over her head where her hair splayed out on the armrest and the hem of her dress hitched up towards her hips. If Azira wasn’t a true gentleman down to his core, he easily could have looked up that skirt and gotten a good look at whatever Crowley was sporting in the way of pants (or lack of), and it almost appeared as if she was tempting him to (she certainly was).

“Are you in need of attention, Dearest?” he goaded, entertained by her audacious demand for his focus. Crowley was pleased to find that the more drunk he became, the more he embraced his new endearment for her. A soft hand smoothed over her ankles, and Azira shifted his thumb to rub at the now exposed achilles heel. Surprise struck him when he found a smooth, cool texture. A lean back and a glance downwards allowed him to observe the dark gradient of red-to black scales spanning a few inches that resided there. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, the sentiment dripping with shame as she began to pull her feet from the comfortable padding of Azira’s lap. On instinct, he grasped her ankles and pulled the feet back to rest atop his plush thighs. His soft thumbs returned to glide over the scales, bringing a thrill through Crowley’s stomach and up the back of her neck and inciting the beginnings of a pink hue on her face. 

“Don’t be. I didn’t know you had these. Strange they’re only here,” he remarked with a studious focus. Shame bloomed in Crowley’s chest, and she felt a bit sick from self-hatred. 

“They’re not,” she admitted. In slow, cautious movements, her arms pivoted and raised up towards him to display wrists that boasted the same phenomenon. Disgust was written on her face as clear as the text printed in his books, and she found herself confiding the most superficial secret she’d ever kept from her closest confidant, “Up my spine and on my hip bones, too.” 

Surprise and then dismay washed over Azira at the self-diminishing emotions his dearest person was radiating. He reached to take one of her thin wrists in a gentle motion, running his perfectly manicured fingers over it in while his mind worked. The urge to bring the flesh to his lips was difficult to resist, but what was being around Crowley if not fighting temptation at every moment? His thoughts were vocalized with only the utmost consideration, care taken that they didn’t come across as an accusation, “I would have remembered seeing this.”

“I… well. I charm them away. But you know me- pants with bloody charms. I have to do it twice a day, and- ack, with losing my wand earlier and all. S- sss- stupid of me to forget. Any one of those Muggles could have seen these hideous things.”

“They’re not hideous,” Azira argued, an affronted quality to his voice, “They’re perfect. Just like the rest of you.” 

His genuinity slayed Crowley, and she found herself turning a stark red. She smacked down the compliment on instinct- surely, it would render her destitute if she dared to accept it, “A load of bollocks, that is.” 

Azira, quite under the influence of spirits himself, discovered he had reached the end of his rope when it came to Crowley’s self-depreciation.

“Anthonia, my dear, you know I think the absolute world of you.” 

Even through the tinted glass, Azira could tell she was rolling her eyes, and he frowned in disapproval.

“I know you want me to think that you think the world of me, but I’m not daft and you’re too clever to pretend to be.”

“No. I’m not daft. But I’m hardly pretending to be, either. Shall I break it down so you can’t possibly argue how truly I believe it?” 

Crowley repeated the dismissive eye-roll, pretending to tune him out as she gazed back at the telly. She expected her friend to drop the topic since she had ceded her engagement in the argument (as he usually did), but she’d started something. Azira was quite intent on finishing it.

“You’re remarkably beautiful as whatever gender you might be on any given day, but I think that’s the one thing you’re willing to admit to so we’ll leave that be, shall we? As much of an indifferent shrew you insist you are, you’re likeable- loveable, even. Don’t try to deny it. Even Gabriel Goodbody himself can’t ever debate that. You’re everybody’s favorite professor, favorite colleague, favorite patron, favorite friend.” 

“S-shhh-shut it,” Crowley snapped with a disapproving sneer, reserved solely for when he dared to praise her.

“I won’t,” Azira protested for the first time, barrelling on, “You know why you’re so likeable? There are countless reasons, really. You’re the cleverest person I know. I’ve never seen a concept that was put down that you didn’t immediately pick up. And it’s not just ideas- you’re an absolute marvel at reading people. A person does something and you know why. They think something and you know what it is. I don’t know how you do it; I just know there’s no one better. Of course there’s know-how and then there’s application, and you’re just as clever there. You’re the most charismatic person I've ever met. You could easily use that intuition to manipulate the people around you, and yet you only use that skill to make things better for them. ‘Mean and cold’, are you? I’ve seen you use those crafty words to bring friends back together, to con criminals into giving instead of taking, to protect people, to motivate others- entirely unbeknownst to them- into doing their best work and most selfless deeds.” 

Crowley was nearly as red as her hair now and attempted to push her foot against Azira’s face, her own features warping into a forced sneer as she venomously hissed, “You’re not an _ angel at all, are you? _ A bloody _ imposter _, you are!”

The blonde easily pushed her foot away by pressing against her thin calf and paused for a short moment to make note of her body language, wondering if she was indeed as miserable as she was acting. As important as it to him for her to understand how highly he thought of her, he didn’t want to cross any boundaries. 

Her face was halfway buried in the arm of the sofa, a hand covering the visible bit that remained. Her spine was arched, and her shoulders were raised. Her chest worked faster and harder than it had before. All at once, Azira realized she simply didn’t know how to accept praise. But did she hate it? No. Quite the contrary. She was _ loving _ this, and as she clenched her thighs together and drew them upwards towards her body, he realized it went a step farther- she was _ excited _ by this.

And right on the money he was. Crowley found herself somewhere between wanting to die on the spot and wanting to get stuck in a purgatory where the compliments never ceased. Her heart felt filled to the brim and pounded so hard it spilled over in little waves of feeling _ loved _ and _ seen _ that spread into her chest and trickled downwards. Meanwhile, farther down, between her hips, unbridled desire grew like amounting electricity, charged by Azira’s unrelenting praise and bursting upwards through her torso in little- yet mighty- lightning strikes. The waves and voltage met somewhere between her sternum and stomach and brewed a mighty storm that left her shivering with vulnerability. The sensation both thrilled and frightened her. Azira had never _ adored _ her so brazenly, _ wanted _ her so shamelessly, and she longed to be vanquished by his love. No. She didn’t believe him. But damn did she _ want _ to. 

She laid curled up there, and at the prolonged silence, she tilted her head a bit and released a whine that hardly conveyed her sentiments, her previous crude, boisterous repudiations weakened into whimpers. With a sinful thrill of pride and arousal surging through him and rendering a pins-and-needles sensation into his fingertips, Azira realized she was waiting for him to continue. So he would- mostly because the point had yet to be made, and she clearly didn’t believe him yet. A smaller, more wicked part of him was simply gaining the utmost carnal pleasure from the idea that _ he _ of all people was managing to tease the world’s most salacious succubus in such a way. 

“Because you’re quite _ selfless _ , aren’t you? The most selfless person I’ve ever known. Trading away your life and career for a cure that will soothe countless souls, forgoing a home so you can be family to those who don’t have any, always getting in trouble to cover for students you know deep down are good, hiding away your pain in some- don’t get me wrong- _ very _ misguided and ludicrous attempt to be only the best for the people you care about. To me that sounds like a _ loving, kind, caring _ person. A _ good _ person. Good to a fault.” 

Azira soon found a red-bellied snake slithering away in retreat, too overwhelmed to retain her human form. A victorious little grin claimed its place on his face no matter how hard he tried to fight it. He snatched her up with ease, trading his hands in front of one another to keep her from going anywhere. 

“Alright, now- I’m finished,” he reassured, laughing as the snake went limp in his hands from an equally potent mixture of relief and disappointment, “But I must point out you were the one who started it.”

He held her out for a moment to give her the opportunity to change back and found she wasn’t inclined to take it. Entertained, he maneuvered the long, beautiful creature, allowing her to wind through his arms as he turned her to face him. A tongue flicked out at him with the last, meek bit of defiance Crowley was able to muster, and his chest vibrated with laughter yet again. 

“You’re going to stay like that, then?” he asked, watching the tiny head nod up and down. 

“Quite a poor loser, aren’t you?” was the next question, which earned a playful bite to his wrist. 

“And tetchy, too,” he teased, starting to lift Crowley away from him only to find the serpent slithering forward and coiling onto his chest, capturing Azira’s wrist as she went. 

A final, fond chuckle escaped him, and he laid down flatter on the sofa, making himself more comfortable. His fingers glided atop the snake, soothing over the smooth texture. The movie took his sleep addled mind for a while, and he realized after a short time that Crowley had fallen asleep. With gentle care not to disturb her, he retrieved a tartan blanket from where it was arranged over the back of the couch and draped it over the both of them. Hardly a moment more of the film was seen before Azira fell victim to the tempting song of sleep as well, the slow rise and fall of his chest bringing comfort to the creature that rested atop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley about her own boyfriend when she's within ten feet of Azira: "I don't know who this man is. I mean, he could be walking down the street, I wouldn't know a thing. Sorry to this man."
> 
> This chapter was really self-indulgent. It was originally part of the last chapter but I got a weeeee bit carried away with it. I dunno, I just felt I owed something to these sappy, horny, hopeless idiots after how stressful their lives have been recently. Also had the sense we were perhaps overdue for some sexual tension and the debut of Crowley's praise kink ;P


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley run some errands in Wizarding London. Several months after the conclusion of his investigation, Crowley tries to get some of his belongings back from the Ministry. One of his worst nightmares comes to fruition in the process as his best friend meets Emiliano Heller. Azira smacks the Dumb Bitch Juice out of Crowley's hands.

In what felt like an instant, it was all gone, leaving a few inches of shocking red locks sticking straight out in its wake. Crowley had changed his hair drastically and often before; it was something Azira had grown to be quite fond of, but after the events of finding him stranded in Muggle London (it had only been a day since), something felt strangely more _ finite _ about the whole ordeal. There were unmentioned catalysts that made the action more powerful and significant than Crowley would ever share with Azira. 

“You’ve cut your hair,” Azira had identified, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice and the observation factual and void of emotion. 

“You don’t like it,” Crowley scrunched up his face and shook his head. It was more of an acknowledgement than a question.

“I didn’t say that,” the blonde defended. The animagus took notice that he hadn’t taken action to argue any further. 

“It was just a bit… oh, I dunno, _ effeminate _, wasn’t it?” he voiced as if he’d ever had an issue bleeding across gender lines before. 

“If you say so, Dear Boy,” Azira wondered at the strange sentiment, but in the end he had decided it was best to stay out of it, as he certainly wasn’t about to police a genderfluid person on their right to feel dysphoric. 

All else after that night had carried on much the same, save for a very inconvenient sexual tension that now hung thick in the air. Of course, it’d been there before, but it had been shrouded in an invisibility cloak, lurking after them with subtle indications of its presence. It was a ghost looking on. An unseen force that might make one feel like they were being watched. Now the cloak had been effectively ripped away, revealing the presence that lingered. It was a horribly messy minefield to navigate, really, not made any easier by Crowley’s incessant flirting and dirty jokes. Azira couldn’t act as aggrieved as he felt by it, because truthfully his friend had always sported such behavior towards him. It had been _ him _ that tripped up, not by simply having acknowledged it, but by having drawn the line farther to get Anthony more hot and bothered than Crowley had dared venture near in his own attempts. 

Luckily he’d learned how to weaponize it. Whenever the saucy redhead would get too audacious with their advances, Azira need only get one or two compliments into a tangent before Crowley would turn stark red and tell him to shut his bloody mouth. Truly, the deep-buried, hungry, desperate part of Crowley was quite excited by the fact that Azira had the power to take him to pieces at will, and now he knew it. He did his best to quell his desires, sure that the reserved object of his affections would never act on them save to occasionally put him in his place. 

Still, he’d take it. It would make his blood burn and his heart race faster than a centaur could gallop. His brain would turn to an excited, debilitating state of static that rendered Azira’s words the only thing real to him, the only thing that could _ touch _ him. It even made him entertain the thought of _ believing _ Azira, of playing with the idea that maybe he was worth something after all. Valued. Loved. Anything but the awful truth he knew to be reality. In those moments, he would become burdened with the suffocating urge to dare the blonde to _ prove it _. Instead, he’d act like he hated it. The moment would pass. Azira would move on as if nothing had occurred, and Crowley would be left carrying the insufferable heat around with him until he found the privacy to relieve it. 

A week after their table-top adventures they found themselves in London yet again. Personal shopping and materials acquisition in Diagon Alley was the purpose this time. They’d spent the majority of the morning going shop to shop, though when Azira made eyes at the used bookstore, Crowley took his leave with a mention that he could be found causing trouble with George Weasley at his infamous joke shop. Indeed, upon concluding his business nearly an hour and a half later, Azira was sent up to the Weasley twin’s office by his younger brother and found the two grown men (or rather, grown children) brainstorming up a parchment that, if written on, would later transform into a series of personalized insults targeting the reader. 

“Oh Dear, looks like I’m interrupting mischief at its finest. Good morning, George.” 

“Morning, _ Angel _,” George responded with a toothy grin that only grew at the swift kick he earned under the table. His eyes sharpened at Crowley and the two shared a silent argument with a myriad of expressions, “Tony here’s helping me come up with new products. Always has the best ideas. You could come work for me, you know.” 

“Tempting as hell, but you know I-”

“Yeah, I know. Married to your research. No room for other men in your life. Not even dashing, brilliant entrepreneurs that could make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Dunno, Mate, I don’t think I know anyone that fits that description,” Crowley gave a smirk, thinking he’d navigated the obstacle quite well. But he and George had spent enough years scheming and causing trouble together. The twin had witnessed him weasel his way out of countless situations, avoid the most dangerous of suspicions, and craft the most exquisite of lies. As good as Crowley’s poker face was, for George it might as well have been a declaration of his feelings backed up by song and dance.

“Now hold it, back it up,” George started, holding his hands up in front of him and then winding them backwards around one another. A wicked grin took position on his face. Crowley could sense the signs of oncoming trouble like they were indications of an inevitable hurricane. His stomach clenched and he gritted his teeth, features falling into a grimace.

“George-”

The warning was entirely ignored, “You got a bloke in your life, mate? You two finally get on with it?”

A crude gesture between the two professors accompanied the identification. Azira’s mouth warped into a squiggly line and blue eyes fell to look at some of the bizarre excuses of art lining the walls. Tan shoes danced about the floor a bit as he squirmed in place. Crowley did his best not to humor George with a reaction, simply rolling his eyes. 

“No. And it’s nothing serious. Just physical, really,” Crowley lied. 

“A love story for the ages,” George grinned, well aware of the bluff, “I know him?”

“Nah,” the Herbologist lied again.

“Who is he?” he asked again as if Crowley had answered affirmatively. 

“We ought to be going, I have to pop by the art supply store and make it to the ministry before the lazy buggers all go for lunch,” the younger wizard overtly ignored his friends’ questioning. 

“Alright, Tony. Play it that way. This isn’t over,” George combatted playfully, standing to bear hug his companion despite the broody pout on the other’s face, “You give Val my love. And tell Fred and Roxanne to stay in trouble.” 

“Always do,” Crowley rasped out as the Weasley attempted to crush his bones. 

“Bye, George,” Azira contributed, still avoiding eye contact. If the man could read a stone wall like Crowley so well, he certainly didn’t want him taking note of his own feelings of jealousy.

“Take it easy, Fell.”

The trip to the art store was a short one, though Azira noted he’d never been down the road of Diagon Alley this far. Multitudes of scrumptious looking hole-in-the-wall restaurants popped into view, and the blonde found himself organizing a mental catalogue of all of them. The shop in question had remarkably little floor space, but was stacked high with teetering shelves full of all sorts of materials. A myriad of artworks of different styles lined the walls above them and sprawled onto the ceiling. Azira had never seen much in the way of magical art and found himself, mouth agape, eyes wide, beholding the wonder of paintings that swirled with changing colors and swept through alternating scenes. 

“You paint?” 

“Pffff, no. Don’t you think you would know if I did?” Crowley asked, going straight for the most expensive paints. 

“I don’t know. You can be very mysterious, when you want to be,” Azira pointed out with a tinge of snide he couldn’t withhold, Both he and Crowley nearly fainted at the price as the paints were rung up, meager professors’ salaries making a single purchase of such a high cost liken a death sentence. Still, the redhead dug out the coins from his pocket, and the shopkeep practically had to pry his hand open to take them from him. Mild devastation shattered through him as he watched the gold galleons rain into the till and a few sickles and meager knuts be dropped into his open palm. 

“Highway robbery,” he grumbled as they exited the little store. 

“If I asked why you were making such a purchase, would you answer honestly?” Azira asked. 

Crowley gave him a wounded look. Truly, efforts towards transparency had been made quite frequently as of late and at great cost to his own comfort. It didn’t seem fair that they were going unnoted, but he supposed he had quite a lot to prove after all the lies and secrets he’d put the object of his affections through.

“For Manny,” he answered. Azira had initially been surprised back when he found out Crowley had a Heller brother that was a decade younger, but he found himself quite taken with how fond and, well, _ proud _ his friend would become whenever breaching the topic, “It’s his twenty-eighth birthday, soon.” 

“He’s an artist?”

“Oh yeah. Bloody good one, too, just has to make his break. He has an art show coming up and ran out of paint. He’s been agonizing over it. Hopefully he’ll shut up about it now,” he offered, acting greatly inconvenienced. Azira knew better; the animagus was simply trying to excuse his act of generosity before accused of anything resembling kindness. He gave a fond little smile and allowed the act to play out, remaining quiet. 

Next on the agenda was Crowley’s begrudging obligation to visit the Ministry of Magic. Even two and a half months after his investigation they held some of his research hostage. After quite a bit of them putting him off via mail, he decided to simply show up and demand they help him. Azira did not share his dread, instead bouncing up and down as Crowley prepared to disapparate them both.

“Oh, I’ve never been to the Ministry! I’m a bit excited!” Azira chirped, hands grasped in front of his chest in earnest. 

“Uuuaagh. Only you could be _ excited _ for a trip to deal with the bloody government, Angel,” there was a bit of fondness in Crowley’s voice despite his efforts to appear greatly bothered by the whole ordeal. He loved how Azira still had a childlike wonder for the bits of the Wizarding World that still remained hidden to him. Someday, Crowley wanted to run off with him. Wanted to share with him all the amazing wonders and secrets of magic he’d found on his travels abroad. 

Though it was an uncomfortable, strained experience, Crowley managed to get them to a strange part of Muggle London that Azira was quite sure he’d never had the displeasure of frequenting.

“Why are we on a Muggle street? Couldn’t we have just disapparated straight there? Or used the Floo Network?”

“Nahhhh. In an effort to make getting helped as inconvenient and painful a process as possible, they insist non-employees take the visitor’s entrance, w- www- weh, which is just around the corner. Don’t think they could have made it more obnoxious if they tried. Swear a fellow messenger of Hell came up with the blasted idea.”

“Oh. Scrappy part of town, isn’t it?” Azira identified, eyeing the graffitied walls spattered in colorful and crude exclamations and the shabby pubs that lined the alleyway. Despite it being only one o’clock, drunken Muggles swayed back and forth down the street, knocking over trash bins as they went.

“Quit fussin’, Angel. We’re nearly there.” 

The blonde’s brows furrowed a bit and his lips pursed as Crowley pulled open the door of a dilapidated phone booth, the red paint of it chipped to the point of no return. They were at a standstill for a moment, idling in front of the booth before Crowley began swinging his arm around the elbow, impatiently gesturing for Azira to get in. 

“This… is the visitor’s entrance?”

_ “Yes _, Angel. Today, if you please. I want to get this over with.” 

“Patience is a virtue, Dear Boy,” Azira huffed, stepping inside the structure. Both men averted their gaze as Crowley trailed in after. This space was almost more cramped than the impossible compression of their joint disapparation. They truly were squeezed in, chest to chest. Both took care to breathe through their noses, and Azira felt a thrill scramble his heart and lungs into a muddled mess of organs as every exhale tickled his temple. The pure-blood’s arm raised and reached behind Azira’s head, and the Muggle-born’s heart took off as if it were aiming to beat a record. Blue orbs fixated on those lips just centimeters below eye-level, and he held his breath, wondering what, exactly, Crowley was doing. Even with the idea that this was it, that the man he loved so much but couldn’t be with was about to kiss him, he found himself unable (or more honestly, unwilling) to stop him. 

At the sight of a phone pulled from over his shoulder, his focus snapped away and geared at the empty street outside. Crowley gave him a curious look, wondering what that caught little expression was about and why he’d gone so red.

“Er, sorry,” he muttered as his long arm reached yet again to dial the number. A cold cheek brushed against a warm ear as the slightly taller of the pair had to lean over the shorter wizard’s shoulder to see the keypad, and the blonde begged himself to suppress the shiver that instinctively worked up his spine.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business,” rang out a witch’s calm voice as clear as if she were squished into the tiny glass and metal box beside them. 

“Anthony J. Crowley here with Azira Z. Fell to get my shit,” the wizard growled into the earpiece, much to Azira’s amusement.

“Please clarify the purpose of your visit, Mr. Crowley.” 

Judging by the scowl that Azira identified, the next explanation would not be any clearer but would surely be more crude. He rested a hand on Crowley’s shoulder to still him and cleared his throat, enunciating, “Reclamation of personal property following the completion of a Ministry investigation.” 

“Thank you,” was the next vocalization from the mystery witch, followed shortly by, “Please take the deposited badges and attach them to the front of your robes.

“‘Thank you’,” Crowley mocked in a nasally voice under his breath, reaching around Azira again to snatch the little silver plates with their respective names on them. He shoved one into the blonde’s hand as he continued his grumbling, “bloody Ministry workers. Think they’re so important.” 

“Ministry Visitors, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

“We _ knowwwwwwww _,” Crowley groaned, banging his head against a window pane in frustration. 

Azira shouted and jumped, clinging to the fabric at the front of his friend’s robes as they began sinking underground. After a moment, he remembered reading that the Ministry Headquarters was completely underground. This made sense. What other way would it move? Did he expect the floor to drop out from under them? His eyes shifted to his companion, and he found a smug, entertained smirk dancing on his lips, auburn brows arched high above his shades. 

“Oh, don’t you start,” he huffed. 

“Wasn’t gonna,” Crowley lied. 

The booth came to a stop. A bittersweet concoction of relief and disappointment washed over each wizard as they stepped out and reclaimed their personal space. Crowley rushed off towards the security desk, long legs taking even longer strides. It wasn’t until several steps later that he realized his friend was no longer accompanying him, and turned to find an adorable spectacle of the blonde standing in the middle of the great hall, awe etched upon his face as he turned in a slow circle, gaping at the intricate, beautiful statues and the incredible peacocke blue and gold etched symbols rotating on the ceiling. 

It was a good few moments later before Crowley finally decided he’d given Azira enough time to bask in the artfully constructed atrium, calling out, “Angel,” and jerking his head towards the desk once he’d locked onto those clear blue eyes. 

Their wands were checked out quickly enough, and Crowley made his way over to an information desk where an uninterested, tired witch was working. Azira stood back, idling around the fountain in the middle of the lobby and examining each intricately carved aspect. Several minutes passed, and just as he was wondering what the hold up was, he heard a familiar, boisterous shout aggravation ring out. Only a glance at Crowley’s drawn up shoulders and clenched fists was needed before Azira knew it was time for damage control. No rest for the weary, he supposed. 

The librarian approached his companion, gently taking his arm at the elbow, “Problem, Dearest?”

“Yes! She is _ refusing _ to give me back _ my _ books and notes.” 

“May I ask why?” Azira asked.

“They’re detailing forbidden Magic. There’s currently a broad investigation on the illegal use of time magic. Mr. Crowley’s notes are being used to support the case.” 

Blue eyes cut in the other wizard’s direction, and the golden pair flicked away. Crowley made a sheepish face, hand raising to rub his neck as he mumbled, “It’s not like I’m practicing. It’s just research. I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you about it. Not after what we talked about. I spent a lot of time on those.” 

The witch’s eyes made a bored journey between them and then returned down to her work, expecting the visitors to walk away.

“If I may ask, is Crowley a suspect in this investigation?” Azira asked after he finally found mercy and relieved the taller wizard of his disapproving glare.

“No, sir.” 

“Do his notes have any direct connection to the suspects or the case?”

“Not that it says here.”

“So it’s entirely circumstantial?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“Then statute 52-F states the property cannot be withheld from its rightful owner, rendering it back into Crowley’s custody.” 

“... Wait one moment, please.” 

She turned away, making her way to a large, cone-shaped receptacle of a speaking tube and leaning to mutter something unintelligible into it. A few moments later, a clear cylindrical vessel dropped down from the mail chute beside it. The witch made her way back to the visiting wizards, retrieving the bundle of parchment and a small pouch holding several books hidden within an extension charm and extending it to the redhead, “Your belongings, Mr. Crowley.”

Boney shoulders dropped down as a relieved sigh escaped the author of the notes. As they turned to walk away, he gave his companion a cheeky grin, “You really are the most clever man on Earth. Knew I kept you around for a reason. Could be a lawyer, you know.” 

“Don’t make me regret that, Crowley,” Azira warned, a serious cut to his voice. The easygoing energy was not reciprocated. Anthony’s confident smile turned into an anxious grimace, stones of dread rolling around his stomach at what he perceived to be a threat. 

“AJ!” a smooth, deep voice called out. All the color drained from Crowley’s face as he froze in place, shoulders scrunching up towards his ears. A figure even taller than he was and as toned as Gabriel Goodbody caught up to the pair. Any person with eyes would stop to stare at his face, made up of strong angles that were rounded off in just the right ways. His deep brown eyes lit up as he neared his partner. Anthony just barely turned his face when the larger figure leaned down to kiss him, managing to receive the affection on his cheek instead of his mouth. He looked deeply uncomfortable, trapped in the worst nightmare of being in the same space as his boyfriend and the love of his life at the same time. If he had his choice in the matter, Azira and Emile would never step foot on the same grounds, much less his company. Azira wasn’t supposed to see this. 

“What are you doing here?” the auror asked, quite pleased by the surprise.

“Er. Just getting some old n- nnn- notes that were w- www- withheld during my investigation.”

“You nervous? That stutter’s acting up.”

“N- nnnn- no,” Anthony resisted the urge to curse under his breath as Emile raised an eyebrow at the second sound of his stuttering. There were certainly downsides to dating a detective, “How about you? Aren’t you in Peru right now?” 

“Got back early- Azira Fell, is that you?” 

“Indeed it is.” 

“Emiliano Heller, we went to school together, do you remember?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t believe I do,” Azira said, taking the hand that was extended for a shake. Crowley couldn’t help but cock an eyebrow at that. It didn’t have the usual cadence or signals of his friend’s lies, but he’d specifically heard Azira mention they were schoolmates only a few weeks prior. 

“Yes, well. I heard quite enough about you back then from this one. Couldn’t shut him up about it,” Emile exposed Crowley with a devious grin. 

The youngest of the group sucked his teeth, thwacking his partner with the rolled up parchment. The auror raised his arms, not doing so much as to flinch as he received the onslaught and letting out a laugh. 

“Are all you Hellers hellbent on embarrassing me?”

“Not at all. You do that yourself. We just make sure you never live it down. Would you two like to join me for tea since you’re here?”

A rush of nerves paralyzed Crowley, and he grew even paler if possible, beginning to rush out, “We should rea--”

“We’d be delighted to,” Azira cut him off. The redhead’s head snapped to him, eyes squinted and mouth ajar as he attempted to read the blonde’s expression and found, much to his own awe, that he couldn’t.

“Excellent! Follow me, then. We can go up to my office.” 

As they made their way to the elevators (where both pure-bloods had to grasp onto Azira to stop him from toppling over as it, previously unbeknownst to him, rocketed off sideways before dropping down), Crowley would have likened the sensation in his stomach to that of a kid called to the headmaster’s office but found it was inaccurate. Being sent to Dumbledore for his mischief never sent off the bombs of anxiety and dread that were currently demolishing his innards to shreds with their shrapnel. Azira and Emile made some kind of small talk that he couldn’t quite hear, trapped in his own very invested thoughts of _oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit this is NOT HAPPENING. WAKE UP. _

By the time he came back to his body, he was sitting in Emile’s office, a cup of black coffee in hand, and both wizards were looking at him in expectation. Oh, Satan help him. The nightmare was real. 

“Er. Sorry- what did you say?” 

“I asked if you really bankrupted yourself on those paints for Emmanuel,” the auror droned, disapproval obvious in his tone.

“Ah, yeah, I can afford it.”

“Hardly, AJ.”

“More than he can, he’s a starving artist,” Crowley shrugged with a lopsided grin, clearly unashamed of the act. 

“And maybe that would have driven him into a proper line of work. One he can actually live off of.”

“Awwwhh, don’t be such a square, Emile. Manny’s a good kid. Let him dream.” 

“Doubt you’d do the same for your brats. No way you’d be so soft on them.” 

“Yeahh, well,” Anthony grinned, crooning, “You know me. Not about to ruin my reputation going around being _ nice.” _

He felt blue eyes on him, and when he turned to meet Azira’s gaze, it was directed back at the auror. A mixture of nasty feelings gnawed away at Crowley. Never before had he seen Azira don so impenetrable a poker face or energy.

“Got any biscuits?” the redhead inquired. Maybe his angel was simply hungry. It was well past lunchtime and they were meant to go find a place to eat straight after the ministry. 

“Why? Not as if you’re going to eat them in front of us.”

“Yeah,” Crowley forced himself to laugh, feeling a stronger wave of anxiety than the last. He quite felt like he was beginning to drown. Sure, it was true, but he still quite despised the topic being addressed in such a direct manner, “But I’m not your only guest, am I? I’m sure you’re getting a wee peckish, eh, Ange-eeeaaaaaaziraaaaaaa.”

His eyes slowly rolled behind his glasses to lock onto a lantern floating near the ceiling, but he could feel the glare from his partner growing slowly stronger as realization dawned on him. 

Once upon a time, despite all the love he harbored for Azira, Crowley had managed to withhold fantasies of intimacy from his mind. Indulging in them had been too cruel, too self-harming, and it had left him only with devastation and further dissatisfaction. After the events of a week prior, his ability to manage such luxurious thoughts and the bliss his beautiful imagination could bring was slowly dwindling away. There had been times they quite possessed him, even when he didn’t intend for it. Perhaps not when the muscled figure of his boyfriend, unlike anything he imagined Azira felt like, was pressed against him from above or behind, but on the rare occasions he was anchored to reality by only one hand on a back or tangled in a fistfull of curls, his eyes closed to allow limitless visions, it was possible the word “Angel’ had spilled from his lips like a dam that had burst. It was also possible he had excused it away and kept the fact that it was his endearment for Azira a high-cost secret. Perhaps they weren’t exclusive, but exposing oneself was moaning about someone else (more than once) in the midst of intimacy was never stellar.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Anthony?” 

“Uh- I have to, m- mmm- might… there’s a… it’sssssss- you know, I’m gonna r- rrr- uh, run to the loo,” Crowley wasn’t quite sure how to get himself out of this one, save for physically.

“Of course you are,” Emile said, giving Crowley a pointed look of cynicism as he scurried out the door. 

The polite smile returned to the auror’s face after the redhead had gone, and he turned to the Muggle-born in his presence. There, without any onlookers to witness it, they gave each other scrutinizing examinations up and down. 

“I heard you’re helping AJ with his problem, at great risk to yourself. That’s very kind of you. I’m glad he has someone on the inside that’s there for him.” 

Azira returned the cordial smile, “I could say the same of him having someone on the outside.”

“It’s a privilege, honestly. As much work as he is, I’m quite fond of him. I’m glad to finally be meeting you. I was hoping we could perhaps get on the same page about a couple things concerning Anthony.”

“Of course, I’m sure that’d be beneficial.” 

“Right, I just think it’s important we encourage the same behaviors in order to ensure he’s in the best mindset. Especially after the events of a month ago.” 

“What behaviors are those?” 

“Well. Strength. Bravery. Persistence. If he’s receiving mixed messages, I don’t think he’ll be able to make it in the midst of whatever’s to come.”

The corner of Azira’s mouth quirked and his eyes narrowed in movements so small they were nearly imperceptible to the human eye, “I’m not sure I follow.” 

“Well, you know Anthony thinks the world of you. Anything you say, he takes as scripture. I’m just worried- well, honestly speaking, I think you coddle him too much.”

A moment of silence passed between them. The blonde folded his hands in his lap and leaned back, “In what way, might I ask?”

“Telling him it’s okay to be afraid, to not be able to fight, that there’s no shame in weakness. By true nature, he’s confident, tough, unbothered. I just think filling his head with the ideas you have been makes him fall to a state that’s below him.” 

“Really?” Azira was using slow, steady breaths, his lips quirked into a small smile, “Thank you for sharing your concerns. I will be certain to take that into consideration.” 

The door creaked open and Crowley sauntered back in, sprawling back down into his chair and bringing a distinct smell of cigarettes with him. He’d reclaimed his composure. Feigning innocence was like brushing his teeth, at this point, “Interrupting something?”

“Not at all, just talking about work,” Emile reassured. 

“Yeah? Where you flyin’ off to next?” 

“Pakistan.”

“Oh!” Crowley sat up, both feet falling to the floor under him as he leaned forward, “A couple plants I need are there. They’re rare but I know where to get them. Bring them back for me?”

“What? For that research you’re obsessing over?”

“Maybe,” Crowley crooned, boasting a grin of guiltlessness.

“Right,” Emile sighed, “Don’t you want something normal? Jewelry or something?”

“Nahhh! Plants!” 

“You’re a madman, you know that?”

“You signed up for i-” 

A loud bang went off, echoed from down the hallway and accompanied by what must have been an auror’s suspect screeching “GET AWAY FROM ME!” as loud was humanly possible. Anthony gave a violent start at the noise, his heart stopping for a moment and his hands flying into clenched fists at either temple. For a moment, he floated away from the world, mind beginning to spin out of control and his lungs failing to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Azira’s hand twitch towards him and then resign to rest back on its place in his lap. His heartbeat started to race. Why did he stop? The angel’s touch always brought him back, always reminded him that he wasn’t alone. Now he felt trapped, stranded. It was slipping back, it was all slipping back. 

“_ Anthony _,” snapped a voice for the fifth time, only perceptible to Crowley when accompanied by the snap of fingers in front of his face. 

“S- shhhh- shite,” he managed out, only halfway coming back.

“We talked about this.”

“I kn- knu- know.”

“You can’t do this every time you get a bit startled. It’s ridiculous. It’s going to be the literal death of you.” 

“I know,” he repeated again, a lump in his throat that he desperately fought down. He couldn’t show weakness, it was foolish. He had to cover it up, to shove it behind a wall and seal it up with heavy stones. 

“Calm down.”

“I’m t- tr- trying, I will, I am.”

“Which is it?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, swallowing hard. His hands shook as he focused all his concentration into appearing calm, to masking the chaos wreaking havoc deep inside, “I’m fine.”

Emile gave him a close look up and down before nodding in approval and smiling, “See? Was that so hard?” 

Crowley forced himself to grin back, making a sheepish attempt to jest, “You know me. Always the dramatic one.” 

“Oh dear, is that the time? I’m afraid we have to be going,” Azira piped up very suddenly, sending an abundance of relief surging through Crowley. Just like his guardian angel to sweep up the pieces when he was falling apart.

Emile’s eyebrows raised as he watched the blonde rocket out of his seat, “Oh really? What a shame! Well, let me walk you out-” 

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. A mousy, bespectacled little witch stuck her head into the room, “Heller? The situation in Pakistan has escalated, I’m afraid you’ll need to leave immediately.”

“Bugger,” he muttered, standing and giving Crowley an apologetic smile, “Sorry ‘bout it, Love. Cuídate mucho.” 

“Claro, que tengas un b- bue- buen viaje.” 

Crowley begged his mind to stop buzzing, insisting in his heightened state of awareness that his body not flinch on contact as Emile leaned down to kiss him. 

As the pair of colleagues made their way up to the atrium and back out to the muggle street, Crowley’s mind was not with him. Every sound was like nails on a chalkboard. Every sensation was like hot metal searing into his skin. Every breath brought icy, dry agony. A sweat began working up on his forehead and all at once he felt quite dizzy and even more nauseous. The world began spinning around him. He didn’t notice the streets they were walking down. He didn’t notice when Azira stormed far ahead at an infinitely faster pace than usual. He didn’t notice as the Librarian returned to his side upon realizing Crowley was not with him, concern traced deeply into his features. 

And then, in one swift motion, that grounding hand brought him back from it all, rescuing him from his free fall as blue skies caught him safely within their clouds. As he looked around his surroundings, he found them in a Muggle pet store, in front of a glass window, at least a dozen puppies roughhousing and tumbling around on the other side. 

“Pick one,” came the heavenly voice.

“For what?” Crowley asked, brain still scrambled. This was, perhaps, the most confusing scenario to come back to. His hand was shaking within Azira’s, but he squeezed it before it could be retrieved. His angel obliged, leaving it there and holding him firmly anchored down to earth.

“To play with, naturally.”

“I dunno, Angel. Dogs d- do- duh- ugh, don’t like me.”

“The baby ones will. They don’t dislike anyone or anything, I promise.”

After being unable to pick, Crowley found himself on the floor of the room with Azira at the encouragement of the shopkeep, laughing uncontrollably and spitting out the most ridiculous noises of half-hearted disgust as every puppy in the room seemed dead set on licking his face. Tug of war was played, bellies rubbed, and noses booped. It wasn’t until several minutes later, when Crowley looked up to find uninhibited adoration in Azira’s gaze, that he realized his world was turning at normal speed again. Realization hit him. While he’d never admit it, the blonde had identified his state. He’d fixed it. He always did. Always knew what to do to restore the peace within him. Crowley didn’t know how he managed every time, but he felt more in love than ever knowing he did. Finally, he could see what was going on in that beautiful mind.

“Think McGonagall would mind if I brought one of these back?”

“Crowley, no.”

“Awww c’mon, Az, they’re just harmless lil’ babies,” he cooed, holding two of the squirming pups up to either side of his face.

The corners of Azira’s lips twitched. Clearly he was struggling maintaining his stern standpoint on the matter, “And there will be more anytime you want to come play with them. But you know they’re not allowed on grounds, Dearest.” 

“Uuuuugh, no _ fun, _ Hagrid got to have Fang when we were young,” the redhead pouted. The pair indulged in several minutes more of play before finally relinquishing the adorable wriggling creatures and taking their leave, side by side, “So, where to for lunch?”

“I think we best get back.” 

Crowley stopped walking altogether, bewilderment etched onto his face. Azira realized he was not following and stopped, turning back to face him. With a few strides of long, spindly legs, a cool palm was rested on his forehead. Naturally it was for show, as Crowley’s body temperature was significantly lower.

“What are you doing?” 

“Checking if you’re on your deathbed. You must be to say no to lunch.” 

The librarian let out a huff of air through his nose to serve as a sarcastic laugh, rolling his eyes and gently swatting away Crowley’s hand. He swiveled on his heel to march onward, “I just don’t have an appetite, that’s all.” 

“... And that’s supposed to be reassuring?” Crowley blurted out, chasing after his friend.

* * *

“So. Out with it.” 

Azira raised his eyebrows, turning around in Crowley’s office just after they’d entered it, “I beg your pardon, Dear Boy?” 

“You don’t like him,” Crowley immediately identified, a grin playing at his lips. 

“I didn’t say that,” Azira huffed, looking away (his most obvious tell).

“Angel, you _ skipped lunch. _I’m not dull.” 

“... I don’t _ dis _like him.” 

“Az,” Crowley laughed, walking forward and resting his hands on beloved’s shoulders, “Your my best friend. Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might care what you think?” 

Hope flashed through Azira’s eyes and then grew cold just as quickly, he averted his gaze, “If that was true, I rather think you would have consulted me about it earlier.” 

Guilt wormed its way into Crowley’s mind and sent a concurrent surge down his body, “I understand why you feel that way. It’s fair. I just- it wasn’t supposed to be serious. It was supposed to be casual. You and Device are my two favorite people in this world, and I didn’t want to w- ww- ugh, waste your time with someone that wouldn’t be around. I didn’t want you to worry. But now that it’s different I-... look, there’s no one’s opinion I value more than yours.” 

Much to his relief, he regained contact with those eyes. Blue and Amber meshed hopelessly together despite the glass between them.

Azira had to still himself. Every emotion he’d gone through during that Hell of a meeting bubbled to the surface, but he couldn’t share them. He couldn’t confide how when he was exposed for his eating habits and his stutter, his teeth had ground until he jaw hurt. Couldn’t reveal that when he was admonished for showing kindness, his nails had dug into his palms so hard they nearly drew blood. Couldn’t tell Crowley that when Emile had snapped his fingers in front of his face, Azira had wanted to break them. Couldn’t inform him about the lecture he’d received on Crowley’s ‘true nature’ in his absence, and how he’d nearly jinxed the auror’s mouth into disappearance. Couldn’t expose him to the truth of the most violent urges born of outrage he’d ever experienced as he witnessed his most beloved person be mistreated as if he was anything less than the most precious treasure the world had ever known. No. If he wanted Crowley to hear him, to hear the _ truth _, he had to remain objective. 

“I dislike him for _ you,” _ he finally admitted. 

“Okay,” Crowley nodded slowly, pleased with the progress. He circled Azira and shuffled backwards to warm the back of his legs against the fire, “You got my attention.” 

“He doesn’t- Crowley, he doesn’t _ know _ you at all.” 

“Of course he does. Known me for years. Are you worried I’m keeping all my demons a secret? He’s an auror, he knows ‘bout that too.”

“No, that’s not-,” Azira closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing a steadying exhale through it before reopening his eyes. They were laden with pain now, “I mean that he thinks that facade you wear like armor is _ you. _ He thinks anything beneath that- anything that makes up the flesh and bone and the _ person _\- is phony, and then he acts like it’s something to be ashamed of.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, turning away to warm his hands next, “Is it so bad that he doesn’t dig deeper than what I’m comfortable sharing?”

“Is that what you wish I’d done? Would things be better between us if I never tried to look beneath?”

“No!” Crowley spun on his heel, looking at Azira with wide, panicked eyes, hating himself more than ever when he saw pain traced on the librarian’s face.

“Angel… no. No. I don’t feel that way at all,” a softer tone muttered these words, “But you’re you. It’s different.” 

“It shouldn’t be if you’re letting someone that close. And then there’s the fact that he- he _ gaslit _you for having a panic attack. The last thing you need is someone telling you to bury your pain any deeper than you already have.”

That had hit a sore spot. Crowley’s shoulders slouched down and he shoved his hands in his pockets, turning his gaze away as he managed out, “It wasn’t a good day for you to meet him. He doesn’t mean it like that.” 

“Did he mean whatever he said or did when I found you crying and freezing to death, alone, in the middle of Muggle London?” 

This drew pause. 

“That was my fault. We talked about it and I was just being unfair. Being dramatic. It wasn’t-”

“Crowley, no. No. There is never a healthy instance where someone runs off crying and then is convinced they were at fault for being hurt. He doesn’t treat you right. He certainly doesn’t deserve you.”

The redhead ceded at last, heaving a defeated sigh, “I’ve been alone for fourteen years. I’m tired. I’m lonely. I didn’t enter… enter whatever this is on purpose. I just didn’t realize how badly I wanted to be with someone- anyone- until I had it.” 

Azira’s eyes turned soft, losing the stern harshness that had burned within them moments earlier. His hands folded in front of him, fidgeting with the gold ring at his pinky, and he bowed his head before sighing, brows knitted, “Do you really want to settle for anyone at all? Don’t you want to be with someone who loves you?” 

Crowley couldn’t control the scoff that erupted from his throat.

“Where, pray tell, would I find such a person? Do you really think I would have spent years whoring myself out wherever I go for the slightest sensation of feeling _ wanted _ if there was someone that could love me?” 

Azira flinched at the pain the self-hatred inflicted, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Someone could love you. If you were honest with them. If you were honest with yourself.” 

Crowley’s mouth fell open, his pupils dilated, and he stared at the wizard before him. Hope burned inside his chest like a roaring flame. Did Azira mean-? He’d implied it before. They’d danced around it. But this- this was different. This was a promise. An offer. A declaration. Was honesty so high a price to ask?

All at once, those hopes were crushed as the pure-blood remembered. Remembered what he was. The consequences that honesty would bring. What Azira would find in him if he let him. If he let Azira in for the chance at love and he discovered the hideous darkness he’d locked away within- the disgusting truth he’d hid from him- it would ruin everything. He would lose the love of his life in the snap of his fingers. They had so much now- so much already. It would disappear right before his eyes. This person was everything to him. He didn’t know if he could survive losing everything. 

“No one should want that, Angel. No one should _ love me. _I already told you the truth. I’m not good. I’m a selfish, broken coward who’s-”

_ “Enough!” _ Azira shouted, a severity Crowley had never once witnessed cutting through the atmosphere of the room. Something had snapped in him. Something that had been building for some time.

“Sit down!” 

No thought was dedicated to it. No awareness had been entertained. The redhead found himself sitting, back pressed flush against the nearest chair. Azira had an anger traced on his face that the pure-blood didn’t know he was capable of. He’d never lost his temper before- not like this. There was something divine about this rage. Something celestial that gripped Crowley in its presence and tied him down in his place. 

“I have had quite enough of this blasphemy. I will not have you saying such vile lies about yourself any more. It would be one thing if you were telling me how you _ feel _ about yourself, but to say it as fact is just as much an offense to me as it is to you! Can you imagine if someone said such wretched things about Valencia? If they spoke that way about me? What if I said such horrible things about myself?” 

“I don’t-”

“No. You don’t get to talk. It’s my turn,” Azira growled, stealing all the air Crowley had left. He paced back and forth, clearly beside himself with frustration as he went on, “I don’t even know where you got this nonsense, what… what _ damned _ monster pounded it into your head hard enough that it became engraved there, but let me tell you a little bit about the bravest person I know. They’ve traded their life’s work up for others. They tried to rescue the mother that only brought them pain. They stood up to their monster of a father. They’ve insisted on living their life, on feeling love and happiness when tragedy has given them so much reason to feel hate and bitterness. Life hasn’t been kind to them. They fall often and they fall _ hard. _ But you know what makes them more courageous than any other person I know? They drag their weary bones up out of the dirt every single time, they dust off their heart, and they try again. For twenty years, they’ll try, because it’s the _ right thing _ and they are made of _ wonder.” _

The attempt to breathe had been abandoned long ago, and Crowley sat, hypnotized, transfixed on the angel before him. 

“Why else would I believe in you so fervently? No matter how long it takes for you to accomplish what you set out to, no matter how many times you fall, and no matter how down on yourself you get. I believe in many things. I believe in God, I believe in the goodness of humanity, I believe in books and in magic and in kindness, but I don’t believe in anything in this world the way I believe in you.” 

His chest was heaving now, that determined look more cemented into his face than ever. He took a deep breath, closing his teary eyes for a moment, and then reopened them, revealing the calm at the eye of an ocean storm the likes of which Crowley had never seen. The cosmic energy that radiated from him slowed its pulses, turning into tiny waves of comfort and holy love.

“And that,” he said with an indubitable finality, “is the truth. Remember it the next time you or any other _ idiot _tries to convince you otherwise. Now. I’m going back to the library. I’ve been gone too long. I’ll see you tomorrow, and when I do, I expect not to hear a word more of this incessant slander.”

Crowley found himself giving a curt nod in a display of obedient understanding, still sat up straight in his chair, stunned into silence. It wasn’t until after Azira was gone for some time that he gasped for air, panting for it in desperation after the blonde had stolen it all and held it hostage. As had happened so many times before, an angel had appeared. Had bestowed the truth upon him. Lit the way. Lifted him up. Given him the strength to try again. And as had happened every time, he believed it. How could he deny the word of a messenger of Heaven who had come all the way to Hell just for him? An angel would never give a demon hope without a reason- without the chance of redemption. 

Azira was right. He didn’t quit- not when all the odds of the world were against him, and especially not when his most beloved person stood on the other side of the lot of them. There had always been something to lose. When Azira encouraged him to put himself out there as a child and to make himself a support system, he lost his family and could have lost the chance at a new one. He could have been shunned and isolated for the rest of his school days. When Azira had convinced him to continue his research without the approval of H.E.R.B., he did so knowing it could make him a laughing stock in his field. He could have lost his job, the chance of another, and his reputation. And here he was, telling him that there was not only the chance of his love, but the chance of feeling he _ deserved _ it. It came at the risk of losing Azira’s friendship and of the only scrap of self-respect he had left. 

But Crowley wasn’t a coward, and Azira had never steered him wrong before. He’d been thrown all the way down to Hell before, and through dirt, stone, and hellfire, he’d dragged himself back up to Earth. He would do it all again if he could fall at the feet of his angel in the end. He would do it a thousand more times. It was time to try again. Azira believed in him. Azira _ saw _ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tough love done wrong vs. Tough love done right~
> 
> So I may have realized that whole last scene between Azira and Crowley could have been replaced by Azira performing a musical rendition of "Girlfriend" by Avril Lavigne. I highly recommend you take a minute to humor that beautiful concept 😂
> 
> I was a bit nervous about posting this chapter! Anyway, we're only a couple more chapters away from the end of Part 1! Buckle up for a roller coaster ride. I REALLY loved all your comments on the last chapter! Reading them is a big part of what motivates me to crank out new chapters so quickly! 
> 
> Feel free to yell at me or AMA on twitter at @Get_Wrexed or on tumblr at getwrexed ! <3 I love talking with you guys and it makes me so happy to make something that I can share with the fandom I love so much!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a breakthrough. He and Emile have an important chat about Crowley's expectations. Azira finds him and his dearest person in a sticky situation.

Crowley was so close he could taste it.

Sure, he’d been close before. Had itty bitty inklings of hope spark up within him. Little passing thoughts creep into his mind and send phantom whispers of ‘this is it, this is it’ haunting through his soul. And each time, they had resulted in bitter disappointment. But this time was different, there were facts to back it up. Evidence unlike any he had ever been lucky enough to find before. 

His whole support system raised up to meet him halfway, catching him as he fell into the madness that was his research. After calling Hogwarts their home ten months a year for half a decade, older students were well aware of when obsession ebbed away all strength to be present within their Herbology professor, and they knew it would impede on their own lessons. So, proving they were worthy of all the faith and adoration Crowley appeared to so reluctantly (but in truth, so fervently) stored in them, they returned that faith tenfold. 

“What can we do, Professor Crowley?” had asked Hagatha Howler, “How can we help?” 

To follow was the prompt abandonment of a lesson on the proper grooming of Fluxweed and in its place a new (and if the consensus was to believed, much more interesting and applicable) lesson on the testing for the exhibition of varying attributes when analyzing the potential usefulness of a plant for potion-making. 

Azira and Anathema had been by as well, as Crowley’s mental break was still far too recent and left too turbulent of waves in its wake to be forgotten now, and his absence was a harrowing reminder of what his isolation could foretell. They were pleased to find the very opposite of their fears. Their dear friend was more engaged with his surroundings than ever. Bottles of liquor had been replaced by empty mugs once occupied with steaming coffee and left on every surface. The redhead’s chaotic excuse of an organized system seemed to be which papers were left flat (and they were everywhere- on furniture, on the floor, in stacks, fanned out, every manner one could imagine papers to be distributed) and which were crumpled. Perhaps the latter weren’t safe either, as an attempt from Azira to be helpful and tidy up had been met with a menacing, “Don’t you put a bloody finger on anything, Angel. You blow my system and I will personally cut off your hands,” which struck about as much fear into Azira as a purring kitten might. 

The pair’s presence otherwise went greatly unnoticed. Anathema played a fun little game of getting Crowley to absent-mindedly agree to the most bizarre of requests, which became less fun when Azira pointed out that he’d never believe he’d agreed to them in the first place. Instead, they both found manners of being useful. Azira pointed out possible interfering factors in Crowley’s tests. Anathema debated the best partnering ingredients to test the plant’s qualities with and against, and arranged their order and delivery subsequently. 

Yes, Crowley was nearly there. At this point it was a matter of time- of grueling tests and comparisons and pure willpower against the siren song of his favorite thing in the world- sleep. In truth, once he realized that this was it, and that he’d found this glorious, surprisingly obvious plant that he’d been hunting twenty years for- Aconitum mystica- he’d stopped for nothing else in three straight days, trips to the toilet being the only exception. Thelpie had no success urging he break to take a rest, though her incessant fussing that he must eat did result in him stuffing sandwiches into his face while studiously scribbling notes. 

There really should have been an indication to him that it was Saturday and then Sunday- perhaps the fact that he had neglected to go to class and didn’t have students knocking at his door or barging into the greenhouse- but he didn’t take note of anything, currently. Anathema had taken the opportunity, after giving a surprising majority of her stock to Crowley for his experiments, to go restock in London and give her long-neglected boyfriend an overdue visit. Azira, losing both his friends to their respective business, decided it’d been too long since he’d gone home to mind his inventory and ensure his cousin Amelia was running the shop to his specifications. Surely, she must be slacking at this point. 

It was late Saturday night. The whole day had passed, and Crowley hadn’t set foot outside his greenhouse for one minute of it. Students had come and gone to perform their assigned duties or check on their Seventh-year projects, taking care to leave their professor undisturbed as they did so. Said professor had just glanced up from his notes to observe the color and shape of the smoke rising from the cauldron before him, only to see an amused brow raised over familiar sharp brown eyes. He lept about half a foot before scrambling to make sense of it.

“Emile! W- ah- wh- eh, what are you doing here?” he managed out upon regathering his senses, glaring at his boyfriend and holding his hand over his furiously racing heart in a futile attempt to calm it. 

“Making sure you aren’t dead. I haven’t heard from you in half a week, and you _ are _ under the thumb of the most dangerous hate group in the country. Is it so strange that I would seek you out?”

“Ah. Right. No. You’ve just never come here before, is all,” Crowley mumbled absent-mindedly, dedicating little thought to the matter as he crouched back down to look at the cauldron. 

“So what’s all this about? Make some new discovery?”

“Yeeeeep,” he drawled, popping the ‘p’, “One of the plants you brought back from Pakistan is exactly what I’ve been searching for.”

“For your research thesis?” 

Crowley snapped his fingers and pointed his index finger at Emile, thumb extended upwards, “You got it.”

“Ah.”

The Herbologist stopped mid-way through scratching his notes down on a now quite preposterously long piece of parchment, looking back up at those scrutinizing eyes. 

“What d’you mean, ‘ah’? You mean like ‘ah, good, I’m relieved and just sound so unenthused because I knew this would happen one day, and I’m not a complete jag’ or ‘ah, doubt it and also surprise, I’m a jag’.”

“Woah,” the built figure held his hands up in mock-surrender, “operating on jag-free frequencies, I assure you. What’s gotten into you?” 

“I haven’t slept in over seventy-two hours,” Crowley mumbled, relieving Emile of his piercing gaze and completing his thought on the parchment, “I’m too close. Every minute I waste is another minute away from Val.” 

He dropped the quill with a clatter onto the workbench in front of him, turning to cross the greenhouse so he might gather a few sprigs off one of the the valerians growing there. 

“AJ, you can’t really believe that,” Emile said, tone flat and cynical.

Crowley slowed, picking up the plant at its base and hesitating before turning to his beau, “I know. Working myself harder won’t get me there faster, but she’s missed so much. I have so much to _ talk _ to her about-”

“Stop.”

“Stop wha?”

“Stop fantasizing. This has gone too far. At first I thought this was your way of… of coping or something. I thought you’d grow out of it. But this is-,” Emile stopped, looking around the mess of a greenhouse with wary eyes, “This is madness. You have to stop.” 

The bespectacled wizard stood still in the middle of his greenhouse, arm curled almost possessively around the valerian as he searched Emile’s face for clarity.

“Who’s fantasizing?” he finally humored, “What the bugger do you think Herbologists _ do? _ We find plants and fungi, we identify them, we learn how to take care of them, and then we figure out how they can be used by Wizarding kind.” 

“I know that. I’m not criticizing that. You do good work. Important work.” 

“Then enlighten me. What am I m- mmm- eh, missing here?” Crowley asked in a low, defensive growl, daring Emile to share his thoughts aloud. He cursed that blasted stutter, always acting up when he was doing his damndest to stand his ground. 

Emile sighed, making his way to his partner and taking the plant out of his hand, setting it down on a nearby workbench. He took Crowley’s upper arms gently in either hand.

“Anthony. This isn’t some illness. This is the effects of a _ curse. _There’s no fixing this. There’s not a reversal spell. This isn’t a scar you can pour a bit of potion on and undo the damage having been done to begin with. I miss my sister, too. But she’s gone. It’s time to say goodbye. You need to rejoin the real world.”

A sudden memory of the first time he’d ridden a broomstick entered Crowley’s brain. He’d been so excited at how in control he was. He’d turned to laugh and wave at Valencia. He’d run straight into a tree.

This felt the same as then. The abrupt sensation of being sucker-punched on the whole of his face and torso. The clenching of his stomach. The dropping of his heart. The cracking of his skull. The jarring pain of it all. 

Crowley knocked Emile’s hands off his arms and gave him a brusque shove in the chest that barely staggered the auror. 

“You don’t believe in me.” 

“I just think anyone that does on this one is a bit impractical. You need to be more realistic. Not just with this but with all your expectations of yourself.” 

There it was, as clear as day; when Emile looked at him, he saw all the things he wasn’t. Worse, he saw how he could _ fix _ him, as if Crowley was a broken watch and he needed to figure out which gears to tear out and which to shove inside it to make it work the way he perceived to be ‘better’. Anthony had always known this. He thought it was what he deserved. 

But then there was Azira. Azira, who never scrutinized his shortcomings and faults. Only looked at the craftsmanship that had put into each gear and piece to begin with. Marveled at how despite those broken and missing pieces, he persevered, ticking on anyway. Encouraged, with unwavering faith, what Crowley could be and achieve if he stopped worrying about all those absent cogs and accepted what he had- how he could make something altogether new and amazing with the same beautiful, trustworthy parts, no added gears needed. Insisted that even if he didn’t change in the slightest, he was more than enough. Azira didn’t see all that he wasn’t. He saw all that he was and all that he could be. 

Azira believed in him. 

“You don’t _ see _ me,” Crowley mumbled in a quiet, powerful realization. 

“What do you mean? You’re right here.” 

“I’m in love with Azira Fell.”

The words had come, steady and strong, and surprised Crowley just as much as they surprised Emile. But he’d meant them, and he wasn’t sorry. The initial shock of the statement slipped away, and Anthony settled into the comfort of the confession he’d kept locked inside his heart for twenty five years. He nodded with conviction, a solid little gesture serving to punctuate the sentiment. 

Then Emile did the last thing he could have possibly expected- he shook his head in disbelief and_ laughed. _

“You’re kidding me.”

“I bloody well am not,” Crowley sneered in his own defense, pained that such a precious truth could mocked in such a blatant, unfeeling way.

“This is what I mean. You’re living in a fantasy world. Can’t you see that? Throwing your professional career away on this fairytale cure? Pouring your affections into a one sided teenage crush? You’re begging to get your heart broken. Why are you chasing after so much more? You have a good job. You could research anything you wanted. You’re brilliant. Hell, if you stopped being so damned stubborn you could be the most famous and successful Herbologist in the world. And this- this flight of fancy about Fell. It’s never going to happen, you’re going to break your own heart. He didn’t return the sentiment then. He’s not about to now. You’re a blip on his detection charms, Anthony. You have something real now. We could be happy together.” 

“‘Happy’,” Crowley spat back, scoffing to himself and mocking in a nasaly voice, “Is that what you think I’d be if I let you _ change _ me to suit your ‘vastly superior’ sensibilities? Fuck off.” 

“Oh, come _on,_ mi amor,” Emile started, taking a step towards the thinner wizard to stroke his cheek.. 

Anthony harshly slapped his hand away, walking past him to pointedly open the greenhouse door. For once, he didn’t so much as shutter at the icy wind that gusted through the doorway. 

“This is over. Get out.” 

“Think about this. You’re self-sabotaging. Setting yourself up for failure and pain and disappointment,” Emile urged, face lined with an attempt to convey concern and hands remained held up before him. 

“I would rather waste my life away and die alone, unloved, and in obscurity than be with someone who only sees how I’ll never be good enough.” 

“AJ, that’s not-”

“You can call me Crowley. And you can get the bloody Hell out of my greenhouse or I can throw you out into the fucking snow. Your choice.” 

Brown eyes gave one last pleading gaze into gold, but in the end, there were no backdoors left to crawl through. No windows left open. Those sunglasses served in their role as a barrier quite exquisitely. 

“When you change your mind,” Emile started, remaining with his face to the animagus as he backed out the door, “You know where to find me.” 

“Don’t hold your breath,” Crowley sneered. The door was slammed shut with a finality that sent the gates of his heart bursting open. 

As he turned to face his greenhouse, everything felt new. Opportunity was rushing towards him in every direction. All worry and pain melted away. He was going to finish this, and when Azira returned tomorrow, he would go to him. He would finally disclose out loud every declaration of love that he’d harbored so there would be no chance of it getting swept under the rug. He would vow himself to honesty and transparency. Anything Azira wanted to know, he could. He would have free access to Crowley’s mind and heart, and either he would embrace it or reject it. If he wasn’t ready- if he was too afraid- Crowley could wait. He’d wait a lifetime for his angel. He’d wait even longer.

Crowley flicked Queen’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ onto the record player.

It was well into the early morning hours before he perfected the potion to where it was nearly ready for testing. He only needed one last ingredient- Acromantula venom. He was sure it would round off the mixture and give it the final antidoctal quality it needed. The store room would be locked securely in Anathema’s absence, and was charm-proof, but Crowley was certain he could obtain the rare substance at the potions store in town. 

Naturally showing up at 3 AM would be an annoyance, but what was the point of befriending all of Hogsmeade’s inhabitants if not to occasionally show up at absurd hours asking for obscure materials? He was a charmer, and the shopkeep was an old friend with benefits. Any irritation she would harbor would be smoothly chatted away. 

Crowley scratched the final recipe on the end of his scroll of notes and made his way to the door. He pulled on his winter cloak, wrapped the scarf Azira had made him around his neck, and turned back to the hooks on the wall to find bright and curious green eyes peering down at him.

“You don’t want to go out there, Twit. It’s right horrid.” 

The owl gave a soft, low call before hopping onto Crowley’s shoulder. His master gave an indignant huff, swatting the owl away. 

“No. Stay here.” 

As the redhead turned to march forward, he felt a bit of resistance tugging at the hem of his cloak and peered over his shoulder to find, to his great amusement, the red little screech owl tugging at the fabric with his beak. 

“Are you serious? You know you’re like five ounces, it would take nothing for me to punt you into your carrying cage.”

The owl gave a wounded little hoot, eyes growing big and his head seeming to sink into his feathers as he fluffed up and shrank downwards. Crowley gave him a hard look. The two were at a stand off for a time before the wizard finally huffed at his familiar, grunting out a reluctant, “Fine. Come freeze to death. Fine by me.” 

Twit hooted a more cheerful tune as he hopped up onto Crowley’s hand and then his shoulder, eyes bright and excited as he took in the dark nocturnal world past the greenhouse doors. He’d been acting quite strangely as of late. At least, the Herbologist thought so. He’d never been fond of Crowley- still wasn’t. Still bit his hands during feeding like the nasty little bird he was. But he was hanging around an inordinate amount, and would even hop up and down the workbenches, bringing his owner ingredients and peering into the large cauldron from its rim. He was more wary of others as well. A couple of students had launched across the room upon attempting to pet the owl and getting a noisy and sudden screech before making contact. Crowley had pointed out he was being particularly nasty. Anathema insisted he’d always been a bit shy. Crowley pointed out he was also being uncharacteristically helpful. Azira defended that Twit had always been quite helpful and mentioned with a huff that perhaps Crowley was finally appreciating the value of his ‘poor, precious, overworked little pet’. 

“Gone soft,” Crowley grumbled to himself, “This is Fell’s fault, he just needs to look at one thing half as fondly as he looks at you and boom- I become a doormat. Muddy boots? That’s fine, stomp them off on my face. Whatever you like.”

Twit nipped his ear in response and the wizard hissed at him, threatening to chuck him into the night. The owl called his bluff, nuzzling into the red scarf as a perfect depiction of innocence. 

Crowley rarely made the trek to Hogsmeade alone. Usually he was in the company of one or both of his befriended colleagues. Sure, he’d journeyed through the dark before, but not when the cold was this unforgiving. The quiet was unsettling, the crunch of his snake-skin shoes in the snow echoing off the barren trees. 

As he finally approached the town, the heavy silence didn’t lift. Perhaps he should have expected that at this time of night. But something didn’t feel right about it. A steady drip of melting snow from a nearby lamp hitting the concrete was the only noise to ricochet between the stone buildings.

“Creepy Crawly, so good of you to come to us.”

Crowley froze at Ligur’s familiar voice for only a moment, reaching for his wand.

_ You bloody idiot! You left it in the Greenhouse! _

The realization that he was defenseless flipped the switch in his mind from fight to flight. Adrenaline pumped through his veins at his quickened heart rate. Crowley pivoted and disappeared down the closest alleyway. No doubt he knew the maze of the small town’s passages and backroads better than Beelzebub’s goon. Quick as a cat, he came up with a plan. Guide him to the farthest point of the alley, circle around, and make it to the shrieking shack. 

The plan fell to bits as he heard Hastur’s voice on the farther side of town.

“Thought you might be overdue for a visit to Headquarters. We’ve been hearing awful rumors about you, Crawly.” 

Of course they were together. The hideous, poorly-kept pair of thugs were never to be apart. Crowley made another right. A quick left, after. He stopped at a friend’s backdoor, pounding on it in a display of desperation.

“Heard your report on the anti-pure-blood’s agent holding up the search. Thing is, we’ve got it on good authority that you two have been _ fraternizing.” _

Crowley mouthed a curse under his breath as his search for safety became more frantic. Twit began biting at Crowley’s ear in urgency as Ligur’s voice drew near. This was too noisy. He had to keep moving. A dead end he was certain had not been there before quickly thwarted that endeavor. 

“We’re fucked,” he whispered under his breath, searching his pockets for anything that might be of help. Instead he retrieved a quill and parchment. He couldn’t write names, Beelzebub would undoubtedly have placed a tracking spell on owl post with their or their goons’ names. The footsteps were drawing closer, he scratched the vaguest and yet most pointed explanation of who had taken him on the parchment. 

_ Lord of the Flies _

“He’s over here, I can _ smell him _,” Hastur growled. 

Crowley tied the piece of paper to Twit’s leg, hissing, “To Azira or Anathema, whoever you find first. _ Go!” _

He threw the owl into the air. Twit flew past Ligur, screeching and smacking the wizard in the forehead, causing the Death Eater to jump back with his hand clutched to his own face in the process. He’d scratched him deep, causing blood to stream down his face. Crowley couldn’t help but grin and remind himself to give Twit more treats than he could imagine should he escape this situation alive. Hastur was hot on his heels, rounding the corner mere seconds later. 

“Hey guys,” Crowley crooned, casually taking a couple steps forward with his arms spread out, “Can’t say I’ve never had a gent chase after me before but _ two at once _ is certainly a fir-”

_ “Incarcerous.” _

Rope spurt from the end of his wand and bound Crowley, causing the victim to fall to his knees with a grunt. 

“Fuck. Kinky bastard, aren’t you? Usually I insist on drinks before bondage, but you just jump right on in.”

“No one likes a serpent that won’t shut up. Sweet dreams, Crawly. Only nightmares for you, when you wake up. _ Stupefy.” _

As the world grew dark and spun around him, Crowley only managed one final thought.

_ Please, Twit. Hurry. _

* * *

Where was that groaning coming from? 

Oh, Azira realized, he was the source of it. The light was dim as he fought to open his eyes, blinking until the bleariness cleared way for the view of a stone ceiling. Not the familiar castle ceiling he was used to waking up to every morning. No, this one was leaking, and steady droplets of water were falling down to hit the small space right between his eyebrows. Another groan was released as he sat up from the cold ground made of the same unforgiving materials. His hand raised to rub the back of his head that must have been dropped very carelessly against the floor.

He was in… a prison? Certainly, he was underground. The space looked to be a couple hundred years old, judging by the architecture, and was not built to be comfortable in any capacity. Heavy iron bars contained him in his cell. Soft murmurs were carried his way from nearby. As he turned to squint at their source, two transparent silvery-blue specters became clear. They circled around a figure slumped onto the floor in the next cell over.

“This is good, that the monster suffers as we did.”

“That’s not fair… he was only a child when we met our untimely fates.”

“Perhaps, and yet he watched. He watched our demise.

“Against his will!”

“He did _ nothing.” _

“He was afraid. He tried to save me. You know that. You saw him save countless others. He risked his life in the process, and now my son lives. All thanks to his bravery. His defiance.” 

The woman defending the man in question seemed to be in a permanent weeping state, bent over the figure on the floor and shielding him with her body as her fingers sank through the hair she attempted to stroke. Azira leaned forward to try to get a look at his face, but it was no use. There was no light down here, and the specter blocked him from a clear view. Her ghostly counterpart was an angry witch, floating slow, predatory circles around the pair. 

“And does that bring justice to the hundreds that died before?”

“Why should he suffer for the sins of his ancestors? Don’t you think he was a good boy, if we never saw him since? He was chased away after saving the others. Threatened with his life should he return.”

“And let's hope his cousins make good on that promise. Never thought I’d be rooting on Death Eaters. But he deserves to suffer. As I did. As _ you _ did. May the torture the Crawly’s rained down among us be returned to him tenfold.”

“This is Crawly Manor?” 

Both witches started at the sound of Azira’s voice. 

“Another Muggle-born,” wailed the weeping witch, “you poor soul. You unfortunate, hapless man. How unfair you should end up here. My heart breaks to confirm your suspicions.” 

As she pulled away from the figure beneath her, blue eyes caught a glimpse of red hair.

“Is that- oh, no. Oh, Dearest. Crowley! Crowley wake up!” Azira hissed. He attempted, despite his panic, to keep his voice as low as possible. He didn’t wish to draw attention from their captors, wherever they may have been. 

The Death Eaters were behind this, he was sure. He didn’t recall who’d knocked him out, but they must have been sneaking about his bookshop. The bell had rung, though he was certain he’d locked the door. He’d called that they were closed and then- then he was here. But Crowley had been safe, at Hogwarts. How could he possibly have been attacked when he was on school grounds? His heart ached in his chest. He wasn’t there to protect him. This was his fault. If they’d both stayed at school, they would be safe.

“You would call this pure-blood scum your friend?” growled the more severe witch. 

Azira gulped, fighting the tears that worked to his eyes as he gazed longingly at Crowley’s unconscious body. He longed to go to him, to hold him in his arms and stroke his hair and tell him they’d be alright, even if that was a lie. 

“He is my friend. But he’s not scum. He’s not like those Death Eaters or any of his family. He’s honorable and kind and has never treated me with anything but respect.”

“So you face your fate together?” lamented the forever-grieving ghost.

“Yes,” Azira croaked, “Please. Whatever suffering you think he deserves, he’s lived it tenfold. I beg of you- help us get out of here.”

In one simultaneous outburst, one witch let out a guttural sob and the other a strong laugh. 

“My Muggle-born marrer, there is no escape. You are in no mere manor. You’re at the very mouth of Hell,” wept the sorrowful witch. 

“Aye,” confirmed her counterpart, creeping forth until she was nearly nose-to-nose with the blonde wizard.

His breath caught in his throat, his eyes grew wide with fear, and he grasped his heart as a closer look at the witch disclosed blackened gouges where her eyes were meant to reside.

“Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments and kudos, you guys! 💖💖💖
> 
> As for what's going to happen next? *imitates Ron Weasley looking into tea cup* You're gonna suffer... but you're gonna be... happy about it? 
> 
> Hit me up at @get_wrexed on twitter or getwrexed on tumblr!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley navigate their capture alongside the many terrors it holds in store for them. Within one another, they find light in the darkness. Beelzebub attempts to snuff that light out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
Violence and use of unforgivable curses (Imperio & Crucio).

Crowley had dreamed of waking up to Azira’s voice before. He imagined being summoned amidst late nights or before breakfast on dull, bleary mornings. After hours of making love or taking a hefty nap on Azira’s chest while the blonde would read any matter of books (because Crowley had never seen him sleep, didn’t quite believe he did). For all the fantasies of exploring explicit kinks, being held while sweet nothings were whispered in his ear, the librarian simply reading in the greenhouses while Crowley worked, or listening to Azira’s noises as he consumed a meal composed of the most sinful delicacies the redhead would have ordered from the most exclusive of sources, waking up to those gentle, dulcet tones calling his name was the most simple and favoured of all of them. The possibility of it ever waking him to anything but the most serene and lovely of scenes wasn’t something he’d even considered.

Until now, when the familiar voice’s soft, urging summons of, “Crowley- oh, please, Heaven preserve us- _ Anthony, _Dearest- wake up!” brought him into a very different reality.

A guttural groan slipped from the redhead’s lips, and he turned onto his side, a heap of elbows and knees hunched over stone until the room stopped spinning in that nauseating, pulsing pattern. 

“Angel?” he asked, wondering if the voice had been in his imagination. 

“Oh, thank the Lord! Are you hurt?” 

As the pure-blood managed to raise his head, he found that beloved face traced with panic and pressed against wrought iron bars. The image had Crowley on his feet and over to him in moments, hands snaking past the barrier to grab the fabric of his sleeves. 

“Azira! Are _ you?” _he spat back with equal urgency. 

“I’m fine, just a bit sore from a rough landing. You didn’t answer me.” 

Crowley attempted to turn his head and only managed to change its angle a few degrees to the left before Azira turned his chin to regain eye contact. Those blue skies were traced with something else now- not a general look of worry like before. This was a more catered concern. One Anthony had seen every time he fell apart- or was about to fall apart- before this person who was so ready to catch him.

“I’m fine as long as we’re not where I think we are.”

“Stay with me. Please. We have to stick together if we’re going to get through this.” 

“That’s not reassuring.” Crowley’s voice cracked. The original curiosity that had motivated him to turn and examine their surroundings now was a heavy stone of dread, fixing him in place as if he was a voodoo doll being pinned into position. 

“We’re there,” Azira confirmed, his own voice wavering as he took Crowley’s arms and squeezed them, “Or here, rather. But I’m with you.” 

The sharp features that made up Crowley’s face contorted into the very image of anguish, and tears immediately came to his eyes. He shook his head sharply. 

“That’s so much worse. This is because of my stupid plan. I sh- shhh- shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

“You certainly should have. The world’s been pushing this on both of us. The idea of us going through this separately… I don’t want to think about it. It’s not your fault, Crowley.”

“Actually it is,” intervened a voice that portrayed the perfect depiction of amusement. The figure crept from the shadows, revealing a face covered with pustules and boils.

“Dagon,” Crowley acknowledged coldly. 

“Sending in those reports that you couldn’t get close enough to the child due to your _ hereditary enemy _ getting in the way and then carrying on shamelessly _ canoodling _with one another during every spare moment.. You think it wouldn’t get back to us? The files don’t lie. Even on the other side, there are people at Hogwarts who want this war enough to share some intel even if they wouldn’t piss to put us out were we on fire. And what good is starting a war with disloyal spies?” 

A look of realization was shared between Azira and Crowley.

“So you were sssstupid enough to sic friends against each other. That doesn’t mean we _ know _ anything,” Crowley attempted to redirect.

“Oh you _will _know something, if you know what’s good for you. This could be easy for you. Quick and painless. It can end right now, in fact. Just give us the name.” 

The pair of prisoners fell silent, but hardly another moment passed before Crowley felt his hand be squeezed to convey a message he understood all too well. Both professors cared about their students. This position was as close to parenthood as either would get, and they felt a great amount of love and protectiveness over their flock, accordingly. Neither would be sharing any names. Neither would forsake Adam, an eleven year old boy, simply to guarantee their own protection. 

“Go fuck yourself you smug, odorous basta-”

“What I think my colleague _ means _to say is, whatever you plan on doing to us, it won’t change the fact that we simply don’t have a name. Whoever the heir is, they’re simply a child and a student, and that’s all they appear as. No indications have been given from any specific person to enable us to narrow it down at all.” 

Crowley eyed Azira carefully, impressed by how smooth the lie had come out. The more honest and trustworthy of the two was a terrible liar. Unless, it seemed, the situation was a dire one. 

“Oh good,” crooned out a new voice that rendered Anthony unable to retain a loud groan upon hearing, “You’ve chosen the hard way. Now we get to play.” 

“Let’s start with the weaker link, eh?” his counterpart suggested, “Don’t suppose fatty here has ‘deceptive’ as their proudest character trait.” 

The pair of Crowley’s captors emerged from the shadows as well. The chamber was designed in such a way that anyone outside the cells could not be identified until opting to stand directly before the gnarled bars. 

Azira shrank backwards at the same time a lanky arm was raised in front of him. If only he had his wand. These three reeked of overconfidence- the very greatest weakness one could show in combat. They were so overburdened with it that he was sure, if only he was given the chance, he could take all three of them and escape with Crowley, unharmed. But that wasn’t the case. He was defenseless. In truth, he was relieved at their sentiment. He found he could face the idea of pain or punishment much greater than witnessing Crowley be subjected to the same. 

“You touch him and I’ll _ gut you like a fucking fish!” _Crowley growled. It was a threat that would have made the most formidable of opponents quake in their boots, were he not crumbled to the floor of a dungeon, defenseless, and coated in dirt as it was dished out. 

“Oh don’t get tetchy now,” Dagon hummed ominously while raising their wand, “No touching needed. _ Expulso.” _

Despite his firm grip on Azira’s sleeve, the Muggle-born was ripped away from Crowley and thrown against the far wall made up of unforgiving stone with a stomach-turning _ crack. _He fell to the ground, almost entirely limp save for his hands that had instinctively raised to clamp over the back of his white-blonde head. 

_ “Imperio!” _

The librarian’s arms fell motionless to the ground in front of his face. Golden eyes were mortified to find, in the very dim light, blood coating the slack hands laid out on the stone floor. 

“Azira!” Crowley shouted, voice dripping with desperation, “Azira don’t give in! You can _ fight _ this! These arseholes have nothing on you!”

“Shut it before I shut it for you, Crawly,” Ligur growled out. He managed to snatch a handful of red waves through the bars and yanked it back against them, effectively holding the prisoner in place. 

“Sit up,” Dagon commanded. 

At the command, Azira’s fists clenched closed yet again. His eyebrows knit together. The veins in his temples displayed themselves out of the sheer focus he poured into resisting the command. It was like the doors to his mind were being pried open. Behind them lay a vast collection of knowledge, stocked wall-to-wall with the most astounding bits of trivia and most thorough of expertise in an unbelievably broad array of subjects. Much like Azira’s bookshop or his library, it was a place not owned by the cold hoarding of knowledge for superiority’s sake. It was a place of love, and sharing, motivated by the betterment of mankind and the protection of those who were treasured. And like his bookshop and library, he was determined to preserve it, even if it meant facing off against Hell, all its demons, and unforgivable curses. 

Crowley had fallen victim to overwhelming sensations of awe towards his colleague before. They had a gentle touch that still sent him soaring helplessly through waves of infatuation and adoration that he’d gladly drown in. Never before had they ingrained so much pain in him alongside the awe. Azira was a marvel. An incredible duelist. Apparently, his defense was just as practiced, as one didn’t resist the imperius curse as effectively as this unless they’d been subjected to it countless times before. Who would torture Azira by taking control of his autonomy? Who would dare? Who did Crowley need to return the favor to, least he ever escape this situation alive?

“My, what a strong will for a Mudblood,” spat Dagon. 

Azira gasped for air, reveling in the chance to regroup his defenses as the curse was dispelled. He rolled onto his back and hissed at the searing sensation as the rear of his skull made contact with the cold, filthy ground. 

“We’ll just have to weaken it.”

“No! Please!” Crowley’s harsh threats turned into pitiful pleads faster than butter could melt above a hot stove, “Please! Don’t! Don’t!” 

“Oh no? So you’ll reveal the child’s identity?” 

The pain of the inner conflict was laid out clear as day upon Crowley’s features, and his typically fear-instilling reptilian eyes watered, pupils dilating. 

“Please,” he attempted one last time with every ounce of genuineness and sincerity he could muster. Despite the heartfelt nature of his plead, the defeat was already audible in his voice.

_ “Crucio!” _

“NO!” 

As easy as the relaying of those three syllables accompanied by a swish of a wand, Crowley’s deepest, darkest, most powerful fear was borne into fruition. 

Azira convulsed on the ground, the most unpleasant sound he’d ever heard ripped from his own lungs. Of course, he was unaware of its source. He was unaware of anything, save for the sensation of burning hot nails hammered into every nerve ending. The injury at the rear of his skull couldn’t hold a candle to the sensation of the whole of it being cracked open and split in a thousand different directions. Every attempt to draw in air was thwarted by the futile cries that were drawn out of him. 

The feeling of hot, salty tears burned against Crowley’s cheeks, and his attempt to surge forward was thwarted by his skull pulled back taut against the iron bars by the unforgiving grasp on his hair.

No. This wasn’t going to happen. Not again. Not to the person he loved more than he’d deigned to care for anything in the whole of his existence. Not to Azira. He would suffer damnation one million times over before fathoming to allow it. 

Ligur started as the red locks within his hold vanished, and a serpent slithered through the bars and between his legs, speeding his way towards Dagon and sinking his fangs deep in his ankle to deposit venom there. The spell-caster let out a strangled shout, but managed not to break their concentration as Hastur tore the snake away. The wizard swished his wand with a simultaneous motion of hammering the creature down to the ground, drawing out a shout of pain that could only be human as Crowley was spread out against the cold stone. 

He felt himself being held down first. Then a rain of fists and feet came down. Every blow hurt something fierce- cracking his ribs, pummeling his shoulders and face, bruising his fragile organs that were protected only by the thinnest layer of muscle. But none of it hurt a fraction as much as the knowledge that Azira was _ suffering _and Crowley couldn’t do a damned thing about it. 

“YOU _ BASTARDS!” _he howled through his grunts of agony. 

The blows suddenly stopped, along with his own cries, and along with Azira’s. Originally, Crowley wondered if some bizarre unknown strength had come from within him, taking form in a mysterious magic and hypnotizing their assailants into submission. 

A much more unfortunate truth greeted him as he raised his head, lowered the thin arms that were raised in meager protection (one of them certainly broken), and found the Lord of Hell himself standing before them. 

“Thought I told you not to torture the Muggle-born?” 

“Yes- well, my lord, he was resistant to the imperius curse and-” 

“That won’t be needed. Hell, there’s plenty of ways we can incentivize his compliance. Especially when we have my cousin here at our dispozzzzzal. He’s quite the stubborn bugger, but falls apart so perfectly at the smallest suggestion. I’m sure the Mudblood will be loathe to see it.”

Beelzebub leaned down into a menacing proximity from Crowley’s face. The animagus’s face twisted into an irrevocable fury. 

“Do you remember playing in these dungeons, cousin? When we were young? Do you remember us shutting you down here, throwing you in a cell, and locking the door? Do you remember the screams and pleads of those mutilated Mudbloods and mangled Muggles flooding your ears? Do you remember what a coward you were, sobbing and begging for us to let you out? Oh and we had so much fun, telling you that we would, and that we’d have such a _ grand time _hunting you like all the others. I remember how bloody your fingers would get, scratching at the lock. And on the best days we would leave you down here for hours! No one would bother to come looking-”

The taunting regalling of cruel memories came to an abrupt stop. Beelzebub’s expression didn’t altar in the slightest as they flicked away the blood Crowley had unceremoniously spat in their face. 

“Fuck you, _ cousin. _Do to me what you will.” 

“A daring sentiment from someone who knows damn well there’s no escape this place, nor the torture in store.”

“There was, once. It could happen again,” Crowley growled, spewing defiance for defiance's sake.

Beelzebub crouched down and peered into those unprotected eyes.

“Ah, yes. The last time you had the opportunity of disappointing poor Uncle Jamison. There was a blood-traitor back then. I think you’ll find yourself alone in that alignment in prezzzzent company. Only one person cares enough to rescue you. And we’ve been smart enough to drag him down to Hell alongside you. Look how pitiful he is when you take a wand away from him. Ironic, for a Mudblood. Pathetic you’re made of scrappier stuff.” 

Crowley tried not to gulp in too notable a fashion. Yellow eyes flicked to Azira, a curled heap on the floor, panting to regain air and distant from the current conversation. He was hurt. He needed help. Most of all, he needed to remain safe from any more of the Death Eater’s ministrations. If Crowley was good at anything, it was providing a distraction. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he grunted.

A smile danced on Beelzebub’s lips, and they nodded before spinning on their heel. 

“Don’t worry. It’ll be fun. Just like the old days.”

Ligur and Hastur grabbed him on either side, uncaring of his new injuries and not bothering to hoist him to his feet as he was dragged into the darkness that waited ahead and watched with the cold eyes and invigorated appetite of the world’s most menacing predators. 

* * *

It could have been hours. It could have been days. It was impossible for Azira to make sense of anything, anymore. He’d long since determined he was suffering what must have been quite a major concussion. Reality bled into fantasy, and vice versa. Visions of rescuers danced before him in cruel frequency. Shubert played on loop, mixed in with a cacophony of voices that he couldn’t decipher the validity or source of. Some of them said kind words. Some recited Shakespear. Some whispered prophecies of inevitable doom. 

Attempts had been made to stand. They’d been thwarted just as easily. No magic held him down, only a balance that had been dismantled to bits. His vision refused to hold the world right side up. It swirled and turned, and he spun with it, observing in a hopeless submission as it changed in color and shape. 

He felt so sick, and might have vomited were there anything in his stomach to purge. The likelihood of it being mere hours faded away as his stomach cramped and growled in an unkind starvation. He didn’t know what made it turn more- his perception of the world or the occasional awareness of blood-curdling screams.

Those were Crowley’s screams, he would sometimes realize in a despairing anguish. They were so distorted and inhuman it was hard to fathom that fact. His brain was uneager to allow thought to flow. For it to cede only for him to remember this made his heart unify with the torture his dearest person was suffering. 

A veela appeared in front of him at one point, wrapped in a gentle, inviting light and wearing a white, wispy cloth that flowed with their hair, as if she was floating underwater. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it? To hear him in pain?” 

“Help him. Please. Make it… make… end it… please… he’s suffered so much,” Azira whimpered. The energy and ability to sob- to grieve in a way that reflected the insufferable wrenching of his heart- had left his sensibilities some time past. But he still felt it. It rooted in deep and grew vast and strong. 

“You could stop it. You could save him,” she crooned, a sing-song quality to her voice. 

“How? Tell me! Anything! I’ll do anything!”

Black smoke and flames engulfed the beautiful creature before him, and it changed. Bones cracked and relocated, pale skin grew dark and marred with scars and gouges, and a menacing, deep snarl replaced the soft voice that had brought him so much comfort.

“What is the name of the Heir of Slytherin? What form do they take? What is their age? Tell me any of these things, and the blood-traitor’s suffering will be eazzzzzzed.” 

“Anything else. Anything else, you can ask of me, and I’ll do it. Please. It hurts.”

Azira’s chest quaked with misery and an empathetic suffering. His vision cleared, and in one rare moment of lucidity, showed him the truth. Beelzebub Musca stood above him, leaning towards his shaking form. 

“We can play this game a little longer, if you insist. You know, it was Anthony’s great great grandfather who invented the cruciatus curse, and his great grandfather, grandfather, and father that perfected and practiced it. Poetic justice that it should be the undoing of the blood traitor that defiled the strength and majesty of his family line.” 

Another attempt at futile pleads fell on deaf ears, and then, after some time, only his own. They echoed off walls containing no other occupants. 

Azira found it was best to keep his eyes closed. Sometimes reality would have mercy, and make way for those sweet visions of swaying against a slender form in an empty office or in a beautiful garden under the night sky. Dreams of yellow eyes, filled with the brightness of sunshine and all its warmth. Images of stars, their power, complexity, and their awesome presence. Despite all they’d endured and how long it had taken for their light to be witnessed, they burned so bright. They lit up the sky and gave humanity hope in all the vast possibilities life could bring.

Occasionally his eyes would flutter open. Sometimes Crowley would be there, in the next cell over, curled in on himself in the back corner of his prison and shaking with a vengeance. Azira wasn’t sure if it was real or not. The lack of mangled shouts in these times would make him consider that perhaps it was. And it was replaced by mumbling- not the subconscious, thoughtful mutters Anthony would muster when coming up with some wild, half-baked idea, but unintelligible murmurs of a man grasping for his sanity with every ounce of his power. The next time he opened his eyes, the figure would be gone, and the howling would be audible through distant echoes yet again. 

Resisting sleep was becoming impossible. The ever-present logic within Azira’s very intelligent mind insisted he didn’t succumb. There was no greater threat when suffering a great head injury than the siren song of sleep. Still, with his eyes closed, those warmer fantasies and scenes called to him. Just relax. Just a little bit. What harm could such comforting scenes possibly instill?

A gentle hand caressed the back of his head, and Azira’s blue eyes opened to find the only demon with a stronger power over temptation than the ones humming in his head. 

“Eyes up, Angel.” 

His vision was masked with yet another obstacle as his eyes grew watery. This could be another mistake. Another trick of his wavering mind. He raised a hand to rest on an angled cheek, and faltered as a hiss of pain was released on contact with the bruised flesh. Before he could pull away, a spindly hand covered his own, keeping it cradled there. 

“Crowley. You’re still here with me. I thought- I was afraid you’d faded away.” 

The relief was muddled by a deep-seated pain as he processed this real Crowley before him. The handsome face he’d grown so used to was puffed up- purple and blue- and one of those gorgeous golden eyes were swollen shut. 

“Now, how could they torture me any more than I torture myself?” Crowley made a weak attempt to jest. 

Azira didn’t think it was funny. Still, the relief that his beloved was capable of such an endeavor made him sob out a short laugh of consolation. 

Their bodies repositioned. Anthony’s must have been screaming to stop contact as broken bones were squirmed and shifted, but he didn’t seem to care as he wrapped his good arm around Azira. They rested against the wall together, the blonde’s head nestled safely into Crowley’s shoulder. It was more comfortable than he would have imagined past its deceptively boney appearance. 

They stayed like that for quite some time. It was comforting. They weren’t safe, but the familiar smell of earth and herbs and something else that all indicated _ Crowley _ made him feel it. His eyes sank closed, and the soft call of dreams came with a stronger vengeance. 

The pure-blood must have been aware of it, and he shrugged, gently nudging the snoozing wizard, and muttered softly against his head, “Stay awake, now. You can do it. Talk to me, Angel.”

Azira raised his head to blearily look at Anthony, face twitching in sorrow as he took in his battered appearance yet again. He racked his brain for something to say. What he found brought him no amount of comfort, but perhaps it would for his dearest person.

“Good time to be dating an auror, isn’t it?”

“Ah.”

If Azira wasn’t mistaken (hard to tell, in his current state), doubt flickered across Crowley’s face, followed closely by irritation and then a reluctant contentment.

“Yeahhhhhh, that’s… that’s not in play. If w- wweh- if nn- eh, if we have a way out of here, ‘s not that.” 

“Oh I’m- I’m sorry to hear it,” Azira lied, drawing a twinge of a knowing grin from his companion, “whyever did it end?” 

“Because he wasn’t you.” 

Surprise traced every feature on the Muggle-born’s face, and he half expected the pure-blood’s to mirror it upon realizing his own words. But it didn’t. His face remained unchanged, drenched in absolute adoration and sincerity and- and unmistakably, _ love. _

“You really want to do this here? Now?” Azira breathed, hearing himself choke up. His smile was as gentle as it had ever been, and he tried to give a warm laugh. It came out as a quick exhale of air. 

Crowley smiled, intertwining their hands between them. 

“If not here and now, then where? And when?” 

Already, tears were rolling down Azira’s cheeks. He closed his eyes for a moment. Of course, neither of them wanted to admit that this could be their last chance. The knowledge that it very well could be vanquished any resistance or desire to seek excuses the blonde had ever felt. When his eyelashes fluttered open again, those skies there were open and ready. Ready for Crowley. He gave a short nod and a reaffirming smile. Anxiety hardly had a moment to display itself on Crowley’s face before it was chased away by a squeeze of his hand. 

The angel’s touch always grounded him. 

“Azira, I love you. I love you so- so _ fucking _ much. It makes me bloody stupid. I know that. It makes me do such dumb shite that it annoys you endlessly,” he breathed a laugh, “I know that, too. The irony isn’t lost on me. But I am. And have been. Since I first talked to you when I was thirteen I… I knew. That you were it for me. Y-you- r- you’re - yo- _ fucking- _ damn it. You’re all I’ve ever wanted since. All I’ve cared to want. All I ever needed. You’re the reason I wake up every day, even when I want to sleep for an eternity. You’re the reason I get back up every fucking time I’m kicked down. It almost feels like you’re the reason the sun rises, too. You know so much. More than I could ever hope to. But if this is- if we- look, I just- Just getting to be your friend has made me the luckiest bastard the world has ever seen. I’m a better man for it. _ Loving you _has made me a better person, reciprocated or not. For everything you know, I need you to know that, too.”

“Oh Crowley,” Azira laughed airily, hardly able to see him through the amassing tears. His heart felt so full it could burst, “You’ve loved me for twenty-five years? How long would you have gone on like that? How many years longer would you have waited?”

“Oof… well, let’s see…,” Crowley looked up at the ceiling while making a show of pretending to think, “I’d say… five thousand nine hundred and seventy-five.”

“Why six thousand?” Azira humored him, tracing his fingertips up and down the inner wrist of his dearest’s uninjured arm and feeling the grounding smoothness of the scales that resided there.

“Well,” the Herbologist turned his head to fully face the librarian, giving him a cheeky grin, “five thousand is too rounded, you’d think I was lying. And seven thousand? W- ww- well that’s just absurd. What poor desperate bastard would wait _ seven thousand _years?” 

The pair minded to keep their shared laughter low. Azira tilted his forehead against Crowley’s, sniffling and working hard not to combust into a puddle of tears at his own happiness. His eyes were soft and wide and watery and couldn’t help but delve into the pool of stars before them. 

“I love you, too, my darling. I have for some time now. Perhaps not twenty-five years, but the moment I ran into you at that book store I- Oh, Anthony. I knew you would turn my entire world upside down. And I was right. You’ve given me every last bit I bargained for and more. You’ve given me enough excitement and happiness and laughter for an entire lifetime. Whatever I was doing before you- it wasn’t living, it was surviving. You’ve taught me how to live, Crowley.” 

Crowley’s face contorted in self-conflict. More than anything in the world, he wanted to believe those words.

“You mean it?”

“Don’t make me argue, Crowley. I will. You’re- you’re,” Azira heaved a love-struck sigh, “you’re the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing before I go to sleep. Every decision I make banks on where you’ll lie within it. Every moment I’m alone is filled with anticipation for when we’re next together. Every night without you is spent wondering what might have passed were you by my side. For goodness’ sake, every classic book I read has thoughts infiltrating my mind with what stupid, snarky remark you would make against it. I love you so much food doesn’t taste as good without you there to sneak me bites of yours. I love you so much that the stars in the heavens have turned absolutely lackluster in comparison to the universe held in your eyes. I love you so much it’s- it’s-”

Crowley searched his eyes, desperately looking for the end of his statement. Instead, he found the answer in passionate lips upon his own. He fell into it hopelessly, eagerly, head over heels. He launched into it like a man parched in desert, stumbling upon an oasis. Those soft hands raised to cradle his face, chasing away the pain left etched there. That gentle mouth, always spilling with even gentler words, opened for him, and he searched it like he’d always dreamt of, finding that from this proximity, the love and affirmation poured out with a stronger potency than ever. Azira explored him with a matching eagerness, needy and starved, like he’d found the finest delicacy he’d never even imagined was possible to exist. By the time he pulled away, they were both gasping into one another’s mouths for air. 

“It’s ineffable.” 

Anthony was always charming. Even with a black eye and a bloodied face. But in this moment, the dopiest grin fathomable took his features, and his eyes went wide and sappy. He raised his uninjured arm to stroke the face he’d always longed to touch, finding it just as soft and warm as he’d imagined against his cold, rough fingers. Now he could. For however long they had left- he could. 

“Your love for me is ineffable?” he breathed a laugh of disbelief alongside the words.

“Exactly,” Azira confirmed, smiling against those lips that he’d longed for so long now, “it’s beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words.” 

They fell into each other, hearts warmed now that they were beating in tandem with another. Azira rested his head in the crook of Crowley’s neck Yet again, the world was spinning, but it was just as much from the endorphins of this newly proclaimed love as it was from a failing perception. 

“And there it is. I was wondering what the right button to push was, and now you’ve shown me.”

Azira’s expression altered to convey an exhausted dread as he withdrew from his lover to turn on the unwelcome voice. Crowley’s took on more of a defiant fury. 

“You’re like a cockroach, aren’t you cousin? You just refuse to be _ crushed _no matter what boot I wear or how hard I stomp?” Beelzebub asked, pacing back and forth on the other side of the bars. Hastur and Ligur stood not far behind the short figure. 

“Yes, but I’m a very _ handsome _cockroach, aren’t I?”

“I think so,” Azira affirmed, earning a cocky grin from his beloved. He figured that if they were going to go out, Crowley might as well do it with the pride of his wit. 

“You know, Mudblood, I don’t think I was wrong that we only need to tear apart Anthony to get our answer. But with his resistance to losing it and your worsening head wound, perhaps it’s only a matter of speeding up the process.”

The look on their face was illegible as they turned to the two figures shadowing them, jerking their head toward the cell, “Separate them.” 

Crowley struggled tooth and nail against Hastur’s hands as he was dragged away from his beloved. An attempt to kick Ligur while shouting, “Keep your fucking hands off of him!” was made more than once. The threat didn’t seem to reach its target. Ligur kept his foot anchored to Azira’s chest. It wasn’t much of a struggle, given the blonde’s weakened capacity for movement or coordination. 

_ “Petrificus totalus.” _

“Now Ligur, make sure he can see properly. I do want to make sure it’s a good show.” 

Ligur did as he was told. Though Azira couldn’t move his face, the panic and dread was clear in his eyes. They locked on desperately to Crowley’s. He shook his head, making a pathetic endeavor to grin. 

“It’ll be fine, Angel,” he urged, speaking with such sincerity past the laughs of the Death Eaters around them. The darker figure crossed the room, grabbing the redhead’s broken arm and giving it a sharp twist. Crowley refused to let out the cry it incited. A strangled, muffled noise resonated from his tightly closed mouth instead.

With his target pinned on both sides, Beelzebub took a step into the room at last, pausing to raise an intrigued eyebrow at Azira, “You are watching? You should be. This could very well be the last time you see your man alive.” 

Azira wanted to scream. He wanted to throw himself at Beelzebub, to steal his wand and commit the darkest spells he’d ever dared. But he couldn’t. He could only watch. He’d never felt more helpless in the whole forty one years of his existence. Blue eyes remained locked onto golden ones in a desperate attempt to tune out the rest of the world. Whatever he would see, he’d see it through Anthony’s eyes. 

This proved to be a great mistake. He’d never seen so much pain there before. The command was given to let him go, and he fell to his knees, shocked, before crumbling. Azira didn’t realize his binding had been lifted until he was holding the pure-blood securely in his arms. For a brief second, he found the bravery to look down, to see what had been done, but only a glimpse at the deep crimson staining the cloth at Crowley’s chest and the deep gash of flesh it sourced from was needed before eyes flicked up to his face. There were tears there, now. Both of theirs. Anthony gave a labored little gasp for air before coughing, sending blood trickling onto his chin. 

“Oops, looks like I cut a bit deeper than I meant to. Time’s ticking. I would spill that name now, if you want him to survive.” 

“Anthony, I- I have to…,” Azira sobbed the plead. He was hunched over his lover’s body protectively, as if it would do anything to stop another onslaught of violence. 

“No, no you don’t. What you ha- t- havet- have to do is listen to me,” Crowley retorted, managing to lift his arm to cup that soft face. Even now, he reveled in the fact that he finally could, even if the privilege would be short-lived, “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be fine.”

“How? Crowley, I don’t see a way out of this.” 

“Do you remember when I used time magic?”

Azira let out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head, “Why would you want me to be angry with you right now? I can’t be. You know that.”

“I know. Just listen. I saw thousands of realities. I stood on the precipice of all of them as I made my way to you. All so different and wild and involved. And when you leaned down to me I- listen, Angel. I saw us. In all those realities. Every time I fall, you reach down for me. Every time you’re in danger, I come running. In every conceivable universe, this is true.”

“What’s your point, love?” Azira whimpered, desperate for comfort, desperate for _ hope. _

“My point- m’point _ is. _It’s like you said. Our love is ineffable. Inevitable.” he paused to quite possibly hack up a lung, face twisting in pain before he fought through it and met his love’s gaze yet again to freefall through the skies they held, “Every time, I'll run to you. Every time, we’ll be together. I know that this time, it was cut short, but… but I’ll find you in the next life. You won’t be alone for long. I swear.”

Azira’s face twisted in agony, and a hearty sob wracked his body. Were he to give a lick of attention to his surroundings, he might be suspicious upon realizing that they had been left alone. He might hear the screams of battle and the shouting of spells and curses down the hall. He might have heard the voices of two women, one familiar and one strange, grow closer. 

But Crowley was all there was to him. All he could focus on was the slowing of his breath. All he could see was the fading of the starlight. 

“No, please,” he begged, lifting Crowley in his arms so he might tilt their heads together, “Please. Let’s be together in _ this _ life. Don’t leave me, Crowley. Don’t give in. You never have before.” 

To his mortification, there was no response. The light had gone out without any great collapse of stars or stunning supernovas, it simply dimmed into nothingness. The rough hand so tenderly cupping his face was now limp against his chest. 

Then there was a third hand, smaller and tanner than either of theirs. It landed on Crowley’s wrist and ripped him away from Azira. By the time he looked up to see who would dare take his love away, he instead found Anathema, arched over him as he sat back against the familiar entry hallway of St. Mungo's. The sudden light was blinding, splitting his already aching skull as he hissed and closed his eyes. He fought it with everything he had, blue orbs flicking about in unhindered desperation for a redheaded figure. 

“Anathema! Anathema, I need to be with Crowley! Please!” 

“Are you mad? Azira you have a head injury! You need medical attention!”

“_ He _ needs medical attention. Please! Please… if he… if something happens and I’m not there… I don’t think I can… I can’t… I wouldn’t…,” he choked on every possible ending of the sentence, unable to see her through the spinning world and the barricade built of his tears. 

“Azira, he’s getting it. He’s here, and the Healers are going to do all they can. He’s not alone.”

“Can you see?” he asked suddenly.

Unbeknownst to him, she started back. An immeasurable guilt took her features. She couldn’t see. She didn’t know. The spirits hadn’t shown her this horrendous event or its possibilities. Should she lie? If she was wrong, and, God forbid, something happened (an idea so horrid she wouldn’t allow herself to entertain it, she had to keep it together for Azira, after all), Azira would never forgive her. 

“Azira. I know you’re afraid. I am too. I can’t begin to understand what you’ve been through. But we need to get you taken care of so we can _ report _this. If you’re upset about what’s happened to Crowley, we need to give the aurors a lead before the bastards can get away. We have a chance to get intel. To stop this war in its tracks. We stunned a good few Death Eaters, knocked out others, even managed to bind a couple. Now is the time for action. There will be time for you to worry over Anthony but for now… you just need to trust him. Do you?” 

Azira’s hands raised to cover his tormented features, but upon spotting the fresh blood there, he closed them into fists instead. He lidded his eyes for a moment, holding his breath as he held in vicious sobs of despair. Soon, warm arms were enclosed around him, and his forehead was brought to gently rest on a soft, comforting shoulder. The first hope he’d felt in days burned dimly in his chest. 

He wished Crowley could be here to hear his answer.

“I trust him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gazes dramatically out my front window, sipping Cabernet and waiting for the cops to come* 
> 
> Hoo boy I'm nervous posting this one. I know I deserve a time out. This was probably the most difficulty I've ever had writing anything 😭 The painful stuff was hard, but the sweet love confessions were what did me in, in the end. Writing them say everything they ought to each other was so cathartic, but also opened up an emotional dam. I'm drowning in feelings.
> 
> Next chapter ends Part 1. 
> 
> Question my audacity at @get_wrexed on Twitter or getwrexed on Tumblr~


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira anxiously awaits positive development on Crowley's condition. In the mean time, he gets to know a couple important people in Crowley's life.

“And here’s those books you wanted- most of them, I couldn’t find some. Both your wands, too.” 

“Mr. Fell, I really should urge you to stay and get more rest!”

“And Crowley’s Queen albums- and I threw in a couple blankets, I know how cold he gets.” 

“Or at least go home and get some rest- you haven’t slept a wink!” the worried healer rambled on through the two friends’ interaction. 

“Is my head alright, now?” Azira finally acknowledged the fussing woman.

“Yes, but-”

“Then I thank you, Madame Rosemary, very sincerely, but I have more pressing matters to attend to.” 

The pair of colleagues left the healer stammering behind them as they rushed down the corridor. 

“You should come see him too,” the blonde urged, gently. 

The familiar tan face beside him formed a tight smile- more of an obligation than a genuine display of emotion. 

“They’re only letting in family and his emergency contact- and that’s you, isn’t it?” 

Azira’s mind briefly fleeted backwards to a time he and his dearest friend were filling out obligatory contact information over wine (a couple bottles, actually). Crowley had been sprawled out practically upside down on his sofa, sending the parchment flicking through the air with his wand after folding it into a paper airplane. 

_ “Really, dear boy, it’s just a formality. Write your mother’s name.” _

_ Crowley stopped, bringing his legs down from over the back of the settee so he might twist his body to better deliver his incredulous gape. _

_ “Spoken like a true Englishman.” _

_ “Whatever do you mean?” _

_ “Your mum would…. what? Show up with a tin of biscuits and oodles of canoodles? If my mum caught wind that I’d gone and gotten myself in the hospital she’d-,” Crowley paused to shake his head, puffing out his cheeks as he let out a dramatic stream of air, “she’d finish the job. The last thing I’d see in this mortal life would be ‘la chancla de la perdición’. Farewell, cruel world.” _

_ Azira let out a laugh, rolling his eyes at Crowley’s token dramatics. _

_ “Who, then?” _

_ “Dunno. Could put Manny. But the poor kid’s already got a predisposition for anxiety already. He’s like a bloody chihuahua. He might combust.” _

_ Crowley sat up, as if something occurred to him, and he snatched the parchment out of the air, flattening it and sloppily scribbling down a name. Out of an abundance of curiosity, Azira leaned over to peak at it, raising a brow at Crowley upon reading the barely legible words. _

_ “Me? My goodness, you certainly have no reservations about dragging me into your trouble.” _

_ “Well,” Crowley gave him a toothy grin, “You always do a bloody good job of getting me out of it.” _

“Azira?” 

The librarian snapped out of the memory, shaking his head and holding back tears for what felt like the hundredth time in these trying past twelve hours, “Yes. Sorry. That’s right.” 

As the pair made their way up to the fourth floor, Anathema kept her hand at the crook of Azira’s arm. It was well known in their little group that both wizards were greatly comforted by physical assurance. However, Azira, unlike Crowley, needed emotional space when conflicted, and the witch gave it accordingly. They came to a halt at the healer’s station in the lobby of the emergency ward. 

The bespectacled healer raised his head and only clocked Azira for a moment before rushing around the table, “Oh- oh my! Are you checking in? What are your symptoms?”

“Ah-,” Azira started, looking down at himself a bit bashfully. While his body had been wiped of all blood, his robes were still tattered, stained, and torn. He’d fought tooth and nail against going home to shower or change. He couldn’t. Not when Crowley needed him.

“No, dear boy, I’ve actually just checked out. I’m here for Anthony Crowley. I’m his emergency contact,” while it was spoken with a determined conviction, there was something soft and weak beneath it. At this point, swallowing his sorrow was threatening to become a habit. 

“Really?” the healer’s eyebrows quirked and then furrowed, as if he didn’t quite believe Azira. He shuffled back to his place, flipping through a few different great tomes of records, “Name?”

“Azira Z. Fell.”

“Right. This way, then,” he affirmed.

As Azira rushed to follow, Anathema grabbed his arm yet again, “Oh- Azira. You’ll remember someone helped me come to find you, I should probably let you know-”

“Later, Anathema,” Azira dismissed. He wouldn’t waste a single moment more away from his beloved.

“But it’s pretty important-”

“Nothing’s more important than Crowley, dear girl.” 

As he turned the corner, she disappeared from view. 

“So how is he?” he asked as their steps ricocheted off the walls of the uncomfortably empty hallway. Anxiety laced through both his voice and his features. He worried his hands in front of him, afraid for the answer.

“He’s in critical condition. We’ve stopped the bleeding, but both lungs and the heart received significant damage. He was lucky to get here so soon. The potion for organ regeneration is slow acting and can be easily rejected. For now, it’s a battle of wills. While he’s in such a fragile condition, we insist on limiting visitations to two visitors at a time.”

Azira’s panic must have been palpable, because the wizard before him slowed and took on a sympathetic expression. He stopped in front of a door, speaking in a low voice. 

“The fact that he’s toughed out the last twelve hours is a good indication, Mr. Fell. He doesn’t seem keen to give in without a fight.” 

A sharp inhale was taken in through the librarian’s nose, and he closed his eyes as he let it out. A short nod was given before agreeing, “No, he never has been.” 

He stepped into the room, alone, and instantly found the figure splayed out on the bed, chest barely moving as it worked to rise and fall. He looked away, taking the time to examine the rest of the room before settling down for what he was sure would be painstakingly long hours of unrelenting fretting. 

The hospital rooms at St. Mungos each boasted a modest record player as Muggle hospitals might be equipped with television sets. Azira forwent the provided vinyls Crowley would likely mock-retch upon seeing, and instead he started up one of the Queen albums Anathema had been kind enough to bring. He spotted a littering of empty mugs and tabloids that, oddly enough, spanned over the last two decades on one side of the bed beside a pulled up chair. A moment was spared to wonder who was here. One of Crowley’s parents? His brother? He was unsure how they’d catch wind of the situation so quickly. This surely was a dire circumstance to meet them under, but he supposed he’d just have to do his best to keep himself together. Though, he was reaching his limit with that.

The blankets he’d been bestowed with were laid gently upon Crowley’s shivering figure, and at last Azira settled down next to him to get a good look at his face. 

Azira could practically hear the bubbles rise to the surface as his heart sunk into the depths of despair. 

Crowley was gaunt and his complexion boasted a bit of blue. Already he was predisposed to struggle with keeping a warm body temperature, but with his heart under so much strain, Azira was sure that circulation was a harder task than ever. The warm knit blankets were pulled a bit higher, just under Crowley’s chin, and his partner took care not to put any accidental pressure on his chest. With a flick of his wand, a heating charm was placed on the fabric, and a bit of that blue began to dissipate. The purple bruises on his face were already starting to turn yellow. Though he was unable to start taking potions to fix his broken arm (and surely quite a few severed ribs), it was set with care. Tears came to Azira’s blue eyes, and this time they did betray him, a few slipping down his face. 

“Oh, Love. I’m sorry. You’d tease me for worrying so much, wouldn’t you?” 

He leaned forward, placing a feather-light kiss to Crowley’s forehead and pushing back those short red strands that fell into his face, long since coming loose from their styling. 

His heart felt torn. Seeing his dearest person in such a state wreaked havoc upon it. However, for one gleaming second, he could be here, beside him, and bask in the words they’d exchanged. Crowley _ loved _him. Sure- he’d known that. It’d been evident in every action the fiery redhead had ever taken and in every word that had ever spilled from his mouth. But finally, Azira had a chance to tell him- without Crowley being able to argue or deny him- that he returned those feelings with every morsel of his being.

But... it’d come so late. Too late. While Azira didn’t even want to humor the idea, he couldn’t help but force himself to consider a reality in which Crowley didn’t survive this. A reality where they’d shared some beautiful words and a single kiss before this person he loved above all else was lost to the abyss. A reality in which he’d denied him- again and again. He’d wasted so much time. Why had he wasted so much time? Logically, he knew. And if not put in this circumstance, he would stand by those reasonings. But now, here, with Crowley fading in front of him, he couldn’t help but feel a deeper sense of self-loathing than he’d ever known before. It was only when he heard Freddie Mercury mocking him with an all too painful sentiment that his barricade of strength was finally broken. 

_ The years we belie we lived a lie _

_ I love you ‘til I die _

_ Save me, save me, save me _

_ I can’t face this life alone _

_ Save me, save me, save me _

_ I’m naked, and I’m far from home _

Azira’s hands flew to his face, steepled against his forehead, and a gutteral sob escaped him at last. 

“Who the fuck-”

The wizard started, gazing through bleary eyes at the sudden intruder idling within the room. The form of a woman stood in the doorway. 

“... Fuck me! Azira Fell? Woahhh! Of _ all _ the things to come back to I-,” she stopped to let out a laugh of amazement. The voice was only slightly familiar. He was sure he’d heard it before, but he couldn’t quite place it, “Do you have _ any _idea how bloody ecstatic teenage AJ would be to have you crying over him as he battled mortal wounds?”

That was right. Crowley had been in love with him for twenty five years. The reminder of how long he’d made Anthony wait, how long he’d left him in self-doubt and undeserved insecurity when he could have been showering him with validation and love served as a vicious twist of the knife in Azira’s heart. His face twisted with it, and he burst into uncontrollable tears. 

“Oh- oh fuck- shit I’m- I’m sorry,” the woman mumbled with some sense of humility, shuffling to take a seat opposite him. Her accent was undeniably English, but had the smallest twinge of something else, “Didn’t mean to be a twat. I just have a really inappropriate stress response and… bloody hell, if the last few days haven’t been a shitstorm I don’t know what would be.”

The blonde managed to blink away his tears and get a better view of the witch in his company. As catlike green eyes, filled with intelligence and awareness, became clear, Azira couldn’t help but let the shock he felt betray itself on his face.

“Valencia Heller? Shouldn’t you be-?” 

“What? Drooling on a pillow while my mind melts into mush? No thank you. Who do you think decoded Anthony’s cryptic little ‘Lord of the Flies’ message? Or saved your arse from Beez?” 

“So you’re… you’re _ better _, then?” 

“Ah. ‘Better’. Yes. As ‘better’ as one can get after losing consciousness as a hot eighteen year old with her whole life ahead of her and waking twenty years later-,” she heaved a sigh, slumping down in her chair and taking on the disposition of a broody teenager, “Middle aged. WIth no prospects. No reputation. No job. My only remaining friend on his deathbed. And worst of all- two decades of a _ complete _lack of skincare routine under my belt.” 

It took a moment for Azira to realize that the last bit was supposed to be a joke. 

Then it hit him- if she was cured, that meant- blue eyes flicked down to the battered face between them. A different sort of tears welled up. Tears of immeasurable pride. The endless worry and suffering took a back seat at last, and in its place, unbridled adoration and reverence filled his chest like the brightest rays of sunshine, drying up the rain that had been flooded there. Crowley had done it. His darling, clever, persistent, brilliant man had accomplished his life’s mission after facing twenty years of doubt thrust upon him by sceptics and nay-sayers. 

A weak smile took over his face, and he reached his hand to stroke that soft hair out of Crowley’s face again. He wished he could wash it for him. For working so much with soil and fertilizer, the redhead had always been quite finicky about his hair being anything less than immaculately clean and styled. 

The librarian looked up, mouth ajar, to boast and marvel about his darling’s efforts, and caught Valencia, tabloid magazine raised between them, peering over to curiously pry. Upon green eyes meeting blue, the periodical was raised again, a barrier suggesting their conversation had come to an end. Azira was surprised, but he figured he would have quite a bit to think about too, were he in her position. 

* * *

“Would you like to read to him?” Azira broke the silence at last. 

Hours had passed, and the witch in his company had all but ignored his presence for every bit of it. She looked nearly as exhausted as he did, and just as unkempt. Her hair could be mistaken as a bird’s next, and there was still dirt on her face from her heroic exploits. Occasionally she would grunt out ‘want some coffee?’ if she was going to get more (he found she was also quite committed to avoiding sleep). Other times, were he to try to initiate meager conversation, she would respond with jokes Azira found to be in despicable taste. They simply were a mismatched pair.

Still, who would understand a worry for Crowley’s condition more than the other? The reigning part of Azira- the part that insisted on doing _ good _ and being _ kind _ and spreading _ love _ was determined to find empathy with his beloved’s childhood best friend. 

Valencia ceased tapping her fingernails (she wondered how they were so perfectly manicured) on the window sill, and tore her eyes away from the humorous scene she was watching outside of two Muggle drunkards very poorly attempting to fight. She eyed Azira with suspicion, and he answered only with a warm smile, holding out a well-loved book that boasted the title ‘Topper’ in wide font. It was cautiously taken. 

“Why?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know. He used to read your favorites to you all the time. I figured maybe you’d like to return the favor.” 

Her thick, soft lips pursed, and she looked at him doubtfully before flipping the book open to the first page. A long pause passed as her green eyes flicked back and forth. Azira could tell they were reviewing the first line, again and again. She set her jaw, brows furrowing and eyelashes fluttering from some unknown, overwhelming emotion before she tossed the book to the floor next to her magazines with such lack of care it nearly threw Azira out of his chair from witnessing the sheer audacity. 

“I have a better idea. Why don’t I get to know you? Catch up on the past twenty years a bit?” 

“Oh!” Azira expressed, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. He’d been hoping for a conversation, and he was happy to find it. His head was starting to mix all kinds of lights and noises together in its sleep deprivation, and he theorized that talking might help him stave it away, “Of course, anything you’d like.”

“How long have you and AJ known each other?” there was a bit of a harsh edge to the question. Perhaps she was tetchy from lack of sleep, in which case Azira certainly couldn’t blame her. 

“Oh, nearly two years now.”

“That’s it?” 

“Er… yes, but we were fast friends! We’re very close, to say the least. I love him a great deal.” 

Valencia’s eyebrow twitched in judgement. What was surmised in that discernment, Azira was unaware. He felt like he was a teenager again, being interviewed by the head of a clique to gain access to their study table. 

“Sorry. I just don’t get it.” 

“Get what, dear girl?” 

“What you two possibly could see in each other or have in common. When we were in school, you didn’t like mischief, partying, quidditch, or humor. You don’t seem very different now. Unless AJ somehow became a complete stranger to me over the last twenty years and isn’t into any of that any more.”

“I like humor,” Azira defended, sounding a bit more wounded than he meant to. He cleared his throat, recomposing himself before informing, “No. He’s still quite the little devil, and the life of the party.”

“So I mean- what do you _ do _together?” she inquired, leaning back and crossing her arms, eyebrow remaining quirked. 

“Well…,” he started, “everything really. We talk about our interests. Drink together. Listen to music. Go to new cafes and restaurants-” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Go… to restaurants,” Azira repeated, unsure of where she might have gotten lost.

“Anthony. Anthony J. Crawly. _ This _one right here voluntarily goes to restaurants with you? No arm twisting required?” 

“It’s Crowley, now,” Azira corrected, “and of course I don’t force him! He likes going- at least I think he does. Always makes a point of taking me to new places and trying new things.” 

“So he went through with changing it. Good for him- I’m sorry, I can’t get over this- and he _ eats _ there?” 

“Well, no…,” Azira trailed off, suddenly feeling quite self conscious. Did Crowley secretly hate it? Did he suffer through miserable feelings just so the object of his affections could be happy? 

“But! He comes to every mealtime. I’m certain he likes the company.” 

Valencia blinked blankly. Her poker face was beginning to make Azira sweat. 

“Mealtimes?” 

“Yes. At Hogwarts. We both work there.” 

“Wait- what?” she scoffed, suddenly leaning forward. That had gotten her intrigued, “what could he possibly be doing at Hogwarts?” 

“Teaching Herbology.” 

She barked a laugh, finally ceding emotion, “He’s an _ Herbologist? _ Bloody hell! What happened? Last I talked to him we were going to go traveling the world, hitting up every imaginable club by night and conning the hell out of poor saps by day. Didn’t know he’d become so _ lame _ without me.” 

That had done it. Azira’s patience had been worn down to the last remaining bit. He frowned. The need to defend Crowley kept him from keeping quiet, “Yes. He’s an Herbologist. His studies have taken him all over the world, I’ll have you know. And he took the job as a professor so he might be able to engage in his lifelong research finding a cure for _ your _condition.” 

A defensive look of her own passed over her face. That bite had sunk deep, festering a guilt Valencia already harbored far too painfully. She did what any stubborn, prideful teenager would do when forced to face the weight of their own disparaging emotions- bit back, “Well I didn’t _ ask _for it.” 

“Maybe not, dear girl,” Azira said, though the endearment clearly held no sentiment of softness, “but it wouldn’t kill you to show some appreciation.” 

Valencia, reigning over a temper that would put the world’s shortest fuse to shame, was unable to harness the snide she used to protect her true softness so well. When the dam burst, the waters inevitably flooded out, “Wouldn’t kill me to jump in front of a Death Eater’s wand, either, apparently. But I’m not about to give that another go.” 

“Perhaps it would be better if we didn’t ‘get to know’ each other, after all,” Azira huffed. Logically he knew that he was arguing with someone who boasted the mentality of an eighteen year old. As an emotional being, however, he found himself quite out of patience with the thirty-eight year old woman before him. 

“Finally, something we can agree on,” she snarked. 

Neither made much of an attempt to interact, after that. 

* * *

Another day had passed. Another twenty four hours of no sleep. Of doctors refusing to give any solid answers of Crowley’s condition. Of Azira Fell and Valencia Heller sitting in a room together, stubbornly avoiding being caught throwing anything reminiscent of a glance in the other’s direction. Valencia had been slumped down in her chair, pouting like a guilty child who knew they’d been a brat but were too prideful and wounded to voice an apology. Azira sat upright in his, not regretting his words in the least and pointedly icing her out, reading his books as if he wasn’t actually fretting over Crowley every bit as much as she was. 

“You should go home. Shower. Try to get some rest.” 

The words were fabricated into reality out of nothing at all and came so far from the left field that Azira couldn’t hide the look of surprise he threw at Valencia. 

“Oh no. Thank you, but I couldn’t leave Crowley.” 

She sniffed, looking out the window for a moment. A few beats of silence passed.

“Why ya call him ‘Crowley’?”

The wizard raised his brows over his reading glasses, “Everyone who wasn’t his friend in school does. He prefers it.” 

Valencia’s mouth became an unreadable squiggle that Azira didn’t quite understand. If he wasn’t mistaken by her body language and the energy she was exuding, there was a bit of insecurity there. 

“Well, I get where you’re coming from, but in any case, my parents are coming and… y’know… that stupid fucking ‘two-at-a-time’ rule. We might as well use it as a chance to gather our bearings, yeah?” 

Azira wondered if this was her way of an apology. Perhaps she was more similar to Crowley than he originally thought.

It hadn’t occurred to him that the Heller’s would come- but of course they would. Of course they would worry about the well-being of their son who’s life hung in the balance. Guilt gnawed away at him. He wanted to stand his ground, to insist to stay, but of course he wasn’t unkind enough to deny parents the right to see their child for what might be the last time.

_ Don’t think like that. He’ll be okay. He needs you to believe in him now more than ever. _

“Look, I’m not keen on it either,” Valencia piped up. Her arms were crossed defensively over her chest. Green eyes bore into him as if she was proving to herself that she wasn’t cowardly enough to avert her gaze, “But I swear. One thing changes and I’ll have that cute girl disapparate to come get you.” 

“Cute girl?”

“You know. AJ’s replacement for me. The American Latina. Amalgama”

“Anathema!” he realized before rushing all-to-quickly to excuse Crowley, “She’s not a replacement, I assure you. She and Crowley have worked together for over six years now. He- he talks about you constantly, you know. Even after all these years, he spends every other Sunday with you. He wouldn’t have worked so hard to give you another chance at life if he was eager to forget.”

Valencia averted her gaze, growing misty eyed, if Azira wasn’t quite mistaken. She cleared her throat before trudging on, “Yeah… well. In any case. She’s been camped out in the lobby for hours. I’ll tell dad to have her disapparate to get you the second anything changes.” 

“Right…,” Azira trailed off. He felt lost. Being anywhere but here felt… _ wrong. _

A glance up at his companion showed she was battling the same feelings. 

“Thank you,” he reminded himself to say. She looked surprised at the sentiment, then a bit ashamed, and then settled back into her pouting. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

Azira took a long look at Crowley, tracing his cheekbone with a thumb before leaning down to kiss him on the forehead yet again. He liked to think his breathing had grown a bit stronger. 

“Don’t go anywhere without me, Dearest.” 

* * *

Azira winced at the shrill scream he had earned upon walking through the decades old doors of A.Z. Fell & Co. He squinted blearily at his cousin, who was rushing towards him with her hands over her mouth.

“Azira, are you okay? Should I take you to the hospital? Should I call Aunt Tracy and Uncle Atticus?”

“Do not _ touch _ that phone-,” he started shortly, pausing to recollect himself. Sure, he was tired, and irritable, but poor Amelia had done nothing to deserve him taking it out on her, “That won’t be necessary. I’m not hurt.”

“You’re covered in _ blood!” _

“It’s not mine.” 

The color drained from the face of the young women before him, and he waved his hand dismissively. 

“No, Amelia. I did not murder a man.” 

She comically released the air she’d been holding in her lungs, “Well- what happened? Shouldn’t you be at school? What-? What-...?”

He decided to throw her a bone, “Look I have faced some- ahem… _ challenges _the last few days that I will elaborate upon another time. However, time is of the essence as of present. Crowley is in the hospital, and I’ve just come back to tidy up a bit before getting back to him.” 

“Oh- the bloke you brought to Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Your not-boyfriend?” she teased. 

“He is my boyfriend.”

Were it under different circumstances, Azira would be elated to put a title to their relationship for the first time. And were it under different circumstances, Amelia would be ecstatic to hear it and no doubt make him suffer through all sorts of teasing and questioning. But they weren’t under different circumstances, so Azira stood with his tired gaze low, and his cousin offered a soft consolation of, “I’m… I’m sorry, Azira. Take your time, I’ll stay down here and give you your space. I’ll pray for him.” 

Azira knew Crowley would roll his eyes and _ groan _ if he ever caught wind that anybody was _ praying _for him, but that’d been precisely what Azira had been doing with over half the time he’d been at his side. The idea of someone else caring to do the same brought him immeasurable comfort. 

“Thank you, Amelia. Truly.” 

He made short work of washing himself and changing into a clean set of robes. It did nothing to quell his exhaustion but made him feel decidedly more like a person. Part of him wondered if he should pitch the old set of clothing, but the idea brewed discontentment deep inside- they’d been strategically picked from the most exclusive antique stores. He found them quite fashionable. Pity to throw them out, yet no amount of charms could possibly restore them from the rags they’d been reduced to back into their former glory. In the end, he did away with them, reminding himself that there were much more pressing issues to be sad over before mulling over his private collection of books. He pulled out one of his Lovecraft books, figuring it would serve as a good peace offering for Heller, and flipped it open to cast a quick charm. 

Next, he looked for a book that might bring him some comfort- there were many of those. But he found when faced with so many options that it was best to refer to the classics. The cover of an old favorite flickered through his mind. It had been the first book his heart had melded into. He’d brought it to school nearly every year and flipped through it during times of hardship. With every page, it had washed away his pain. With every burdensome emotion, it would bit by bit replace those feelings with hope. Oscar Wild’s “The Happy Prince and Other Tales”. Whatever had happened to it? He hadn’t seen it in years.

Ah- that fight with Cedric. He used to read the stories aloud to him, on a grassy lawn with the brunette’s messy head laid on his lap. Then he’d gone off and put his name in that blasted goblet after specifically promising Azira he _ wouldn’t dare. _ That awful fight had followed- the beginning of their months-long break. And before he knew it, Cedric had asked that ravenclaw girl to the ball. The moment he’d gotten home for Christmas break, Azira had taken one look at the book after pulling it out of his trunk and _ chucked _it across his bedroom. 

Those were old wounds, however. There were fresh ones to lick now. And perhaps he’d refused himself a book that brought him so much comfort for too long. He padded into his old bedroom- Amelia’s now, and poked around the furniture. Lo and behold- he found a book jammed behind the old dresser that had remained in place for twenty four years. It took equal efforts of muscle and magic to wiggle it out, and he let out a pleased little hum upon succeeding, opening it to flick through. 

To his great horror, a page fell out and dropped to his feet. His heart managed to continue beating again as he noticed it was folded, and thus not a fallen victim from mistreatment of the precious, signed first-edition his father had given him upon sending him off for the first time at Platform 9 ¾. 

He picked the page up, frowning as he noted that while not part of his book, it had absolutely been torn out of another. Who would dare damage a book in such a way? He flipped open the paper at its fold. 

_ A.Z. Fell _

The paper was promptly folded again, and Azira turned his watery eyes towards the ceiling. A brief, fond memory came to mind, sourcing from not all that long ago. A memory of he and Crowley, strolling through the park. Of him teasing the redhead and reveling in his pouting blushes. Of identifying school-year crushes and inquiring after missing invitations to the Yule Ball. Of a gruff, defensive voice mumbling “I put it in your favorite book”. 

And Azira hadn’t thought about it again, after that.

Not until now. When he held that very book- and thus that very note- in his trembling hands. Part of him insisted he put it down. Pretend he didn’t see it. Then again, he was desperate to receive any kind of message from the man he loved so much. Even if the message was decades old. Even if it might tear him apart. 

With a deep breath, he flipped the paper open again, reading the original text that had been printed in the book Crowley had taken it from. 

_ When looking back I dimly see _

_ The trails my feet have trod, _

_ Some hand divine, it seems to me, _

_ Has pulled the strings with God; _

_ Some angel form has lifeward leaned _

_ When hope for me was past; _

_ Some love sublime has intervened _

_ To save me at the last. _

_ For look you! I was born a fool, _

_ Damnation was my fate; _

_ My lot to drivel and to drool, _

_ Egregious and frutrate. _

_ But in the deep of my despair, _

_ When dark my doom was writ, _

_ Some saving hand was always there _

_ to pull me from the Pit. _

_ A Guardian Angel - how absurd! _

_ I scoff at Power Divine. _

_ And yet . . . a someone spoke the word _

_ That willed me from the swine. _

_ And yet, despite my scorn of prayer, _

_ My lack of love or friend, _

_ I know a Presence will be there, _

_ To save me at the end. _

_ -Robert William Service _

And in familiar chicken scratch beneath it:

_ Go to the dance with me? _

_ A.J. Crawly _

“Angel” 

“Angel” 

“Angel” 

A plethora of instances of the pet name played through Azira’s mind. Dozens of different intonations. Dozens of different sentiments. All Crowley. 

He traced it back. He remembered tea with a familiar stranger. A nickname he hadn’t heard since school that restored a warmth he had long since assumed gone. The random eruption of the endearment his sixth and seventh years by a slew of hufflepuffs, always said in a teasing tone- the source of which had always gone over his head. And nearby, a younger redhead that always seemed to be in the same place, at the same time, turning a bright shade of pink. And later on, the suspects who’d dared to mock the word falling victim to all sorts of silly pranks at the hands of the Weasley twins, Heller, and that kid called ‘Crawly’. Then, at the beginning his sixth year. A boy sprawled out on the ground, beaten and bruised, looking up at him as if he were a messenger of God. The first glimpse at the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. The stars he saw within them, present but dim, as if afraid of their own power. The way that _ his words _caused them to ignite and boast their awe-inspiring shine. 

“Oh,” he whimpered, reading the scrap of paper again, and when he was finished, again. He repeated the action over and over, sliding down the wall of the room that felt so painfully empty.

“Oh,” he gasped again, trembling fingers gingerly holding the note to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. 

“_ Oh,” _he sobbed, hanging his head, and at last, all the pain, fear, suffering, and heart-break he had held at bay the last two days bubbled to the surface and flooded outward. 

* * *

A familiar face sat on the bench tucked around the corner from Crowley’s room. Perhaps not a face Azira knew from personal experience- but certainly one he’d seen in pictures. It belonged to a lean young man, dressed in brightly patterned robes and hunched forward in on himself. Square glasses sat on his reddened face, and tears stained his cheeks. His dark brown hair was messy- half pushed back, half falling into his face.

“Emmanuel?” 

He looked up, and quickly turned a darker shade of red. He shifted and scanned his surroundings as if he suddenly remembered he should do something with himself, but didn’t know what. Upon crossing his eyes to see the handkerchief that was offered before him, he seemed to settle down. 

“May I join you?” Azira asked, and when answered with a sheepish nod, took a seat next to the young man. 

The utmost patience was offered. Just as this would always draw Crowley into admission, it seemed to work on his younger brother too. Manny rubbed his nose, blinking the tears away.

“Sorry- I just… I’ve never seen him like that. It scared me.”

“No need for apologies, Dear Boy. Why don’t you speak to Valencia about it? I’m sure she understands.” 

The younger wizard shifted uncomfortably, averting his eyes, “When Valencia was last- you know- I was eight. I don’t really know her at all. Does that sound horrible? It sounds horrible.” 

Azira was surprised to find the youngest of the Heller clan to be so sensitive. That seemed to be more of a Crowley trait than a Heller trait. Briefly, he wished Crowley was awake to act greatly insulted that Azira would accuse him of being such a thing (“‘m not _ sensitive! _ I’m a nasty, tough bugger!” he would say).

“It’s not horrible at all, dear boy. So sorry. I should have introduced myself- I’m-” 

“Azira Fell,” Manny sniffled before managing a groggy laugh, “Trust me. I know. Tony sings your praises. You should have seen him showing off those photos from the Yule Ball.”

As if his affections for the man could grow in any capacity, they would swell to an even greater extent, now. Azira took a moment to relish the adorable idea of Crowley schmoozing over their date at the dance to his younger brother. 

“Right,” Azira said softly, offering an even softer smile, “Well, I’d be happy to lend an ear. I find talking through it can help.” 

The largest brown puppy eyes he’d ever seen sieged war on him, and he found himself quite weak to them. He rested a hand on Manny’s shoulder as the poor boy erupted into tears again.

“Oh, thank you. I know the rest of my family is having a hard time with it too, but they bury everything deep down. Refuse to share. Even make fun of me for being so- so-... well,” he made a vague gesture with his free hand to encompass the shambles he’d fallen into, “But Tony never did. I don’t know Valencia. And I’m just a big disappointment to Emiliano. My parents don’t understand me. If I lose Tony I don’t… I can’t... “ 

“Now, now,” the blonde comforted, leaning forward, “No wonder you’re so upset, thinking like that. I know it’s so strange not to see Anthony in his usual, feisty, fighting shape. He’s not usually one to fight quietly. But he is. He’s fighting harder than anything. We have to believe in him, now.”

He smiled, giving the pure-blood a pat on his shoulder, “How about sharing some happy memories? I bet that will help. You two are close?” 

“Well,” Manny sniffed, blinking the tears out of his eyes, “Yeah. He’s the only one that really gets me. Everyone else in the family treats me like a wuss or a fuck-up but… but he always told me I had a different kind of strength, like... “ 

He thought, swallowing before betraying himself with a soft laugh as his eyes saw a distant memory, “Like when my family found out I’d secretly been going to Muggle Art School when I said I was training for Magical Law Enforcement. Hell broke loose. So I quit. And I was miserable. I tried to train for Law like I said I would but it just… it felt like my soul was being sucked out of my body and lost to the wind, bit by bit. I never told him, but he must have seen it, because one day Tony pulls up on the curb and tells me to ‘get in the fucking car’-”

“Always a terrifying notion with him,” Azira interjected.

“Honestly!” Manny laughed, “But he takes me to this place downtown. A big, open venue with nothing in it. ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ he asks, and I’m so confused, I ask him what he’s talkin’ ‘bout’, and he says, ‘For your art show, dumbarse. Already booked the space. It’s three months out. You best get painting.’” 

The tears were a different kind now. The pair exchanged a grin. 

“And I tell him that nah, I can’t. It was all stupid, wasn’t it? Not like anyone believed in me. And he says, ‘Look, Kid. When the chips are down, and everyone folds on you, you gotta bet on yourself. You hold out long enough, you’ll win the pot. The rest will look like proper fools.’ And what do you know, the art show comes, and I make my break… and now he’s made his, too. I just- I hope he gets to bask in it.” 

“He will. And he’ll be insufferable about it, I assure you. We’ll never hear the end of it,” Azira grinned, drawing a hearty laugh from Manny. 

“Hey, thanks, Azira. I see why Crowley fancies you so much. Keep an eye on him?” 

“Hmmm, I’ll be sure to-” Azira started, giving a bit of a devious look, “if you give your sister a break. A lot’s changed for her in a very short amount of time. I’m sure she’s just as scared about getting to know you again as you are with her. Deal?”

The bespectacled youth contemplated for a moment, but ceded to give the other a warm look- a look of trust. 

“Deal.”

* * *

Valencia’s face went through about ten different emotions when eyeing the book held out to her. It finally settled on suspicion and then redirected to measure up the blue pair of eyes locked on her.

“If you’d just trust me enough to open it,” he urged with an aggrieved sigh.

She caved, belligerently snatching it out of his hands and flipping it open. Any hostility immediately slipped away from her features. She stared, unimpeded, for several seconds, before looking at Azira with a mixture of gratitude and shame. 

“How did you know?” 

“My dear girl, I’m a school librarian. If I couldn’t spot dyslexia, I’d be very poor at my job.” 

She bit her cheek, shifting the book to one hand and running her unoccupied fingers over a page. 

“It’s Lovecraft.”

“Crowley used to read it to you.”

“He hates reading aloud.”

“Not as much as he loves you, it would seem.” 

Valencia lowered her green eyes, finally showing a bit of humility as she slowly exhaled through her nose. She shut the book and held it to her chest, looking sheepishly up at Azira, “Will you teach me this charm? If I’d known it during school- well, I’d reckon I’d’ve done loads better.” 

“Of course, my dear.” 

The way she looked at him shifted, as if the light that shone down on him had changed completely. She averted her heavy gaze, clearing her throat.

“Look. I’m sorry I was a bit tetchy, before.” 

“A bit?” Azira raised his brow, drawing a sly grin from his acquaintance. At the very least, he’d learned she could take a joke at her own expense.

“Okay, I was a right cunt,” she ceded.

“It’s alright. I can’t imagine how overwhelmed you must be with everything.” 

Her smile wavered, and she set the book down in her lap, smoothing her hands over it. 

“It’s… it’s a lot. And all I can think about is how much I wish I could talk to _ him _ about it,” she jerked her head towards the figure in the bed, “If only the stubborn bastard would wake up… I just… I’m so scared. I haven’t changed at all- emotionally i mean, physically I can’t even bring myself to look in a bloody mirror- but maybe he has. And I’m angry that I lost so many years… and I feel _ guilty _ that I’m angry. I feel guilty for almost wishing he’d just let me waste away. I feel guilty that he gave up so much for me and I… wasn’t even here to see him through it. And that makes me jealous. Jealous of _ you. _I get it. For the record. Why you’re together. I’m not exactly fluff and cuddles. But you are, and- and he loves that, deep down. Deserves it.”

Azira didn’t say anything, and sensing that Valencia was the type of person who would be easily spooked away from heartfelt confessions were he to act sympathetic, he kept his gaze locked on Crowley.

“I’ve got this amazing second chance to be there for him, and I’ve already gone and let him down.” 

“Whatever do you mean, dear girl?” Azira questioned. Val didn’t level his gaze, just leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees and look off to the side, guilt clear on her features. 

“What were you up to during the war?” 

The blonde locked his eyes on her. If there was a wrong answer, he was certain he would give it. He swallowed hard. This was something he tried to avoid thinking about. He hadn’t even discussed it with Crowley. But he sensed Valencia didn’t open doors all that often, and urged himself to step through. 

“Well, after what happened with Cedric I… I tried to slip back into the Muggle world. I associated the Wizarding world with all the grief and pain and fear that was instilled in me from that event. I wanted no part of it. Things were safe, for a while. And then… then the Death Eaters started hunting Muggle-borns down. I was sure I was safe enough, after separating myself for three years and then… friends started disappearing. I was scared. I boarded up the shop, took my parents, and went to stay with distant family in Germany.”

He found himself too afraid to look at the witch. From his short time with her, she had harsh opinions and didn’t mince words. He barely was able to mumble out, “You must think I’m such a coward.”

“Nah, I think you’re smart. And to pack up all your things and leave the only place you’ve ever known takes some serious cojones.” 

That was perhaps the last thing Azira expected to hear, and the surprise he felt by it must have betrayed itself on his face, judging by the grin Valencia ceded. 

“I was supposed to be in Slytherin, you know. And then, on the train, I met this scrawny little red-headed kid that acted as nasty and tough as his reputation. But I just… I took one look at him and I knew deep down that he was soft. He was different, and kids that are different get eaten alive. I don’t know why, but I decided then and there that I wasn’t gonna let that happen. I remember him getting sorted into Hufflepuff and I remember him looking like his life was over for it. So I convinced the hat to put me in there too. I made him look tougher. Taught him the value of throwing jinxes at the right time and in the right place. He kept me grounded. Made me stop burying all my emotions down so deep that I’d combust at anyone who looked at me wrong. We found humor together. Watched out for each other. Figured out how to trust people, because at the very least, we could trust in _ us _. And the rest is history, you know?” 

“So that’s where he gets his hotheadedness from.”

She barked a laugh, “Parcero, Tony is cool as a cucumber compared to me. You ain’t seen nothing.”

Her smile faded a bit as she looked down at her hands, lacing and unlacing her fingers absentmindedly. 

“And then our seventh year- well. Let’s just say if they treated pure-bloods the way they did, I shudder to think about what would have happened if you’d stuck around. The Muggle-borns at school… they had it so bad. Anyway, the Death Eaters started teaching Dark Arts. They made us learn unforgivable curses. AJ couldn’t do them. ‘Course he couldn’t. Like I said- too soft. So I always did it for him when Carrow wasn’t looking. But we got caught. They gave up on giving him detention- which at the time was suffering the cruciatus curse at the hands of other students, and, I mean, after what he went through as a kid, he would choose to suffer it rather than cast it on anyone every time. So they locked him in a room by himself- no food, no water, no bathroom breaks until he cast the killing curse on a rat. It was just a rat, but… It took him three days until he finally caved. It broke him. He wasn’t the same for weeks after. Anyway, my point is- I could have gotten them back. And I should have. When I went in there with Anesthesia-”

“Anathema”

“Right. Her. Anyway. I should have shown those pendejos what was what. I should have made them suffer the way they’ve made us suffer. I should have taken their life the way they took mine. The way they fucked up his. I’m not afraid of throwing the killing curse at bastards who asked for it.” 

She ground her teeth. Azira took a moment to process all he’d been told. All at once, he understood Valencia. He understood her bitterness and her anger. He’d felt the same outrage just learning the little he had about Crowley’s history. The idea of being there when it occurred- and knowing _ all _of it- only to suffer a nightmare of her own seemed like too much for one person to bare. He and Crowley had two decades to learn how to cope with the horrors of war they’d encountered. For Valencia, this was all fresh. In her mind it’d been the entire last year of her life.

“If I can say, Valencia, I think Crowley would be glad you didn’t.”

She fixed him with a hard look, opening her mouth to undoubtedly say something sharp and rude and cruel, but stopped, shutting it again.

“How do you figure?”

“Well… Crowley’s spent every moment of the last twenty years trying to figure out how to get you back into his life. He’s been relentlessly working on bringing about this very reality, and the more time that passed, the more fear he’s felt. I think his greatest anxiety about this whole situation is the idea that your suffering will have made you jaded and cold. I think it’s good that you haven’t lost your humanity. I think that while, undoubtedly, this might be a new and frightening world for you, it means there’s hope for you two to navigate it together.” 

Valencia chewed her cheek, fixing Azira with a long look. It felt like minutes had passed before she finally gave him a lopsided grin. She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other and holding her hands out, upturned, to either side.

“Alright, Fell. I’ll level with you,” her voice had a light-hearted, playful quality that almost made it sound as if she was planning something. It reminded Azira of the way she’d talked to Crowley in her lucid moments back when he’d first met her. Much like the redhead, she seemed to be a being of mischief, “I can’t promise we’ll have anything in common. I can’t promise we’ll be friends. I can’t even promise we’ll always get along. But you’re on Anthony’s side. And as long as that’s the case, I’ve got your back.” 

Azira didn’t know what that meant. If he were being honest, it frightened him a little. Valencia, her quick temper, and her shape shifting moods were all quite intimidating. But he supposed if he’d learned how to deal with Crowley, he could learn her, too. He gave her a squiggly, unsure smile. 

McGonagall’s owl at the window saved him from sorting out quite how he was meant to respond to such a declaration. He went to open the pane, thanking the owl as he dropped a letter onto the floor and apologizing for not having any treats on his person. Upon inspecting the delivery, he was surprised to find it addressed to Valencia Heller. 

“It’s… for you?” he relayed, holding the letter out to her.

“Wow,” she said monotonously, raising a brow, “Three days of consciousness and I’m already getting letters. What can I say? I’m just so popular that way.” 

Azira tried to give her privacy as she read the letter, but couldn’t help but appreciate the comical cycle of expressions her face went through. 

“Uh. Guess I have a meeting.” 

She pointed a finger at Crowley, “Don’t you go anywhere.”

“I don’t think he will,” Azira mused, brows raised.

She brought a finger to tap her nose, redirecting her point to Azira afterwards, “He’s a tricky one. That’s how he gets you.” 

With a swish of her wand, she was gone, and Azira was left alone with Crowley. 

“Well, my darling, I’m not quite sure what to make of that one,” he mused, raising his eyebrows and sharply exhaling through his mouth as if narrowly escaping a tedious situation. He only had a book open on his lap for about thirty minutes before a sudden hiss of pain had him slamming the book down on the nightstand. 

“Fucking- ah! Ah, fuck! _ Shit! Agh!” _Crowley started, panting through the pain as he started writhing and grasping at his chest. There was no awareness there, only an obvious submission to an agony that overwhelmed all other senses. 

Azira was out the door flagging down a healer instantaneously, and she soon came in to give Crowley a pain-easing potion that she informed Azira would work fast but would likely send the man slipping back into unconsciousness. He held the animagus’s hand all the while, whispering soft affirmations and words of encouragement. The healer stayed for a while, ensuring Crowley was stable and hadn’t caused any further internal rupturing before leaving them be. 

The redhead’s breathing evened, his muscles relaxed from their pained flexing, and his head fell towards Azira.

“Your head…,” his words were so mumbled the blonde hardly heard them. 

“Is fine. I’m alright, Dearest. Tickety-boo.” 

He stroked the knuckles of Crowley’s hand for a while, reveling in the few moments he could witness the dim glow of those starry eyes that would blink shut with heavy lids and then reopen with a sharp breath in. After this happened a few times, Azira realized the pure-blood was fighting off sleep. An uncharacteristic phenomenon to say the least.

“It’s alright, Crowley. The aurors captured some of the Death Eaters and they’re on Musca’s trail, now. We’re safe, here. You can sleep.”

Crowley attempted to shake his head, instead it fell further to its side on the pillow. 

“What’f yourgn,” he tried.

“What's that, my dear?”

“What’f yur gone?” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

“No, bu’- what’f things’re differen’?” 

Azira furrowed his brow at him, trying to dig down to the sentiment Crowley had meant by that. Realization drew across his face and he let out a soft suck of his teeth followed by a sigh to express his sympathy. Crowley was really afraid that he would take it back? Change his mind and withdraw his heartfelt declarations of love? Force them back into what they were before and deny them _each other_ after what they’d been through? He took his hand away only for a moment, shedding his cloak and taking off his shoes before crawling into the small bed beside Crowley. The frame gave a creak of protest under the additional weight that Azira promptly ignored. He adjusted himself so he was close on his side- nearly nose-to-nose with the injured wizard. With the utmost caution, he wrapped an arm around his middle.

“Does that hurt?”

“Nnnh-mmm,” Crowley lied. He’d be damned if he denied either of them this precious little contact after the Hell they’d been through. 

“Well then, my darling. You’ve been so patient. I know you waited for so long for us to come together. But I guarantee you- for however difficult it was to get me here, I’m much, _ much _more difficult to get rid of.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched. If he weren’t so exhausted, it might have been a smile. And it might have been followed by a witty comment. Azira placed a gentle, slow kiss to his lips and felt him exhale a harbored breath through his nose. 

When he pulled back to gaze at that face he was so absolutely taken with, he found Crowley was already fast asleep. He watched him breathe for a while and couldn’t help but weep silent tears of relief. Anthony was going to be alright. _ They _ were going to be alright. They would get their chance to be together. Here. In this life. And with that thought, he caved into the call of sleep he’d denied himself for five days straight, hoping he’d meet Crowley somewhere in the same sweet dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so long! Seeing as I promised it was the last chapter of Part 1, I didn't want to split it up into different chapters.
> 
> Part 2 is gonna kick off with several chapters of fluff, smut, and navigating new relationships. Forgive me, but the doom and gloom plotline's going to take a wee bit of a back seat for a minute (I think we all could use a break from it 😂)
> 
> I'm not actually positive that this will be 35 chapters, but until I plan out the outline of the ending a bit more thoroughly, I'm going to leave it as such.
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for all your love, support, comments, and kudos! The last four months of writing this fic has been an absolute treasure for me. Considering that this is the first time I've had the opportunity to create content for a fandom, this has been a special journey, and I can't imagine a better fandom to contribute to!
> 
> Seeing as we're over halfway through, I thought I'd celebrate by doing an AMA, feel free to ask about the story, my writing process, or me at getwrexed.tumblr.com/ask or even in the comments and I'll make sure to share answers to twitter, too! ~


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley experiences new obstacles in his healing and attempts (or claims to attempt) to adjust to life in hospital. Azira is convinced to return to school only to find a legion of panicked students. Crowley and Valencia reunite.

Azira was an exceptionally intelligent human being, and as such, he relied heavily on logic to build the foundations of his belief and anticipate the shape his expectations might take the form of. This wasn’t to say he wasn’t a man of faith. Rather, few had as much faith that not only was there a ‘God’, in the omnipresent, all-knowing way, but that They had a Great Plan laid out. However, when preparing himself for the future, faith was what he turned to when logic failed him. 

And indeed, it was logical to assume that when the sky grew rumbly and dark, a storm was coming. It was logical to trust that spring showers would cause new plants to emerge from their beginnings hidden in the soft soil of the earth and bloom in the face of sunshine. It was logical to believe Crowley would whisper threats of letting them get choked by the invading weeds if they didn’t _ get their bloody act together and grow properly. _It might have been logical to assume that after a person woke up after a life-threatening injury, the worst and most painful bits of the ordeal would be over. 

Logical, perhaps, but wildly untrue. It was difficult to pinpoint the most difficult of their obstacles. The past week had creeped by, dragging like a club behind a troll and leaving just as much damage in its wake. The first few days Crowley wasn’t able to maintain consciousness at all without suffering agonizing pain, and just when his vital organs had healed to a less fragile state, the phantom pains set in. Azira had never known about them. Val hadn’t remembered. The Healers seemed remarkably calm about the whole matter, revealing that suffering the Cruciatus Curse for an extended amount of time wracked the nervous system so aggressively that phantom pains could remain for weeks after dispellment. 

Even this great physical pain paled in comparison to the mental aftershocks left in his torture’s wake. The episodes of terror and insanity Azira had only briefly witnessed from Crowley while they were imprisoned were beginning to reoccur. One such evening he entered the room to find Crowley trembling in a corner, unable to recognize him and quite under the impression that his once familiar friend had come to kill him. 

The desire to turn to faith amounted in Azira as it had so many times, but this time, he found it shaken to his core. It seemed whatever test his heart was put to, a more difficult one would appear. Not one was so daunting, so monstrously heart-shattering as those beautiful golden eyes turning to him and being filled only with _ fear. _Not fear of ghosts, or of memories, or of losing him, but fear of Azira himself. He was not the only one affected. At the sight, Valencia had fallen into a silent, trance-like state and disappeared from the hospital for a full twenty-four hours.

For the second time, Anathema brought Crowley’s potion to fruition. For a second time, she snuck under the nose of the Ministry’s Department of Health, breaking several laws and risking being sent to Azkaban by doing so, and with Azira’s help, slipped it into Crowley’s evening tea. 

The terrors didn’t return. Whenever Crowley would finally succumb to sleep (typically coaxed with the help of potions, as he still harbored a paralyzing fear of being separated from Azira), the librarian would bow his blonde head, clasp his hands together, and thank God, filled with guilt that he had ever doubted Her and ever believed She would take Crowley from him after all their love had survived. With the pure-blood’s reclaimed lucidity, Valencia was urged by the staff to keep away, if only until they were sure his heart could take the potential shock of her return. Her compliance with the request was anything but amicable, and it took some sweet talking from Azira on her behalf to keep the feisty witch from being permanently banned from the hospital. 

If Crowley’s strengthening ability for making trouble and tricking Healers was any indication, the worst of his recovery had passed. Soon enough he was restless and irritable, and Azira’s constant interference to his attempts at having any fun at all were only making him moreso. With some sweet words and well placed temptations, the inpatient managed to convince his partner to return to work without him and visit after suppertime. 

As reluctant as he’d been to comply, initially, Azira could have cried upon returning to position at Hogwarts. He’d missed his work, his students, his colleagues, his research- all things he had so recently feared he might never see again. Much to his surprise, dozens- perhaps even hundreds- of watery-eyed students flocked to the library upon news of his arrival and propelled themselves at him with well-meaning hugs and tearful admissions of fearfulness upon receiving the news. He would comfort and bolster them one by one, finding that under current circumstances, his job as a librarian was taking quite the back seat in the face of his students’ need for a counselor. His tutoring groups hardly were able to stay on topic, either, and he found himself hard pressed to get them away from the topic of questioning what he’d suffered at the hands of the Death Eaters. The entirety of his Transfiguration group had burst into tears and little Roxanne Weasley had asked if Professor Crowley was dead. This served as motivation enough for Azira to fall aghast and ask her why on earth she would ever think such a thing, and again ‘the news’ was cited as the reason for the wide-spread panic. 

‘The news’. He had pondered at that. Wondered _ who _ had dared say _ what _to his students to get such a vast many of them in such a frightful state. It was only when he brought this up to Anathema during lunch that he earned a repentant look and a, “Figured you’d find out about it sooner or later.” Later that same day she passed on a copy of the Daily Prophet, sporting a main page headline of “Doom Days Return: Hogwarts Professors Tortured by Death Eaters”, under which a horribly romanticized account of the pair’s capture, suffering, and escape was recorded. Much to Azira’s repulsion, it came along with the claim that the both of them were unlikely to survive the life-threatening injuries they had sustained. No wonder the poor children were suffering such a fright. 

After reading the ghastly excuse of a report, Azira was determined to write both the author and publisher strongly-worded letters about consent and responsibility to the community. His warpath screeched to a halt upon the entrance of the most unlikely imaginable pair into his office. 

Prefect Adrien Fawley and Quidditch Captain Adhya Bakshi stood before him. Typically, the pair were hereditary enemies, noses turned up to the other and holding their housemate’s position in equal contempt. However, today they came to him with unified cause, both uncharacteristically shrouded in a somber spirit. 

The two began to speak at the same time, only to pause and glare at each other, at first with sharp, angry daggers that quickly softened into an apologetic empathy. Adhya ceded her position (from what Azira knew, an incredibly rare event for the headstrong young women) and gestured for Fawley to go on ahead. 

“Professor Fell, is it true you have contact with Professor Crowley?” 

Azira looked at his charges, and all at once, his heart felt so distraught, so positively… twisted up inside. He knew all too well what it was to worry for their eccentric Herbology professor. For however damnable his anger or erratic his temper, it just made his love all the sweeter and more cherished. 

“Yes, that’s right, my dears. I’ll be going to see him later on this evening.” 

“Well… we… the house, and… and lots of others... “ 

“We made something,” Adhya cut in, growing impatient, as to be expected with her own forthright personality, “It’s an ‘ideous thing, really, and stupid, but we wan’ him to know we all miss him. We wanna give him reason to buck up and pull through.” 

“Oh, my darlings. Of course I’ll pass it on. You should know that Professor Crowley is going to be just fine. I’m personally making sure of it. I’d implore you to ignore whatever pish-posh you hear in the papers.” 

Both seemed to visibly relax at the reassurance. 

“Can I- Professor Fell, would it be possible for me to come with you to see Mum? It’s just that he’s- well, he’s the only parent I’ve ever really known.” 

Azira’s chest ached as he took a good look at the girl’s long face and downcast glance, and he approached her, giving her arm a comforting squeeze, “My dear girl, by the time I got permission to take you off grounds, Professor Crowley will be back here raising Hell itself in last minute preparations for your next quidditch game.” 

Hesitant brown eyes raised to meet his blue, and there he found what he expected to be the slightest bit of hope. “You swear it?” 

“I do. I fully intend to escort him back here myself. He’s recovering splendidly, causing all manner of trouble for those poor hospital Healers.” 

Adhya gave him a hesitant yet honest smile, and Azira’s soul found solace that he’d managed to comfort the girl he knew to be so close to Crowley. 

With his working day done, Professor Fell made his way to the hospital, finding his nerves were quite frayed after the long day away from Crowley. He found himself weighed down with paranoia that perhaps the potion hadn’t worked. Perhaps the confusion and terrors would return. Perhaps he would find Crowley, again, curled behind a nightstand on the cold ground and white as a sheet as he mumbled incoherent strings about phantoms Azira could not see. The fear of it all plagued his heart, and from it went pumping through his veins until he could hardly feel his trembling fingers. The walk to Hogsmeade felt longer than ever, no matter how quickly his feet carried him forward. Still, they carried him nonetheless. 

“Allo, Fell. You ah… you look like right shit, mate.”

By the time Azira was pulled from his fretful state, he found himself in the waiting room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s, looking into a pair of green eyes that stared up at him from where their owner was teetering back and forth on a chair with a periodical dangling in her hands.

“Good evening, Heller. I believe I might have done just as well without that assessment. What brings you here?” 

Not giving the slightest indication of apology (he’d learned she wasn’t one for them), the witch gave him a toothy grin. She reminded him of Muggle fashion magazine’s from the fifties in her high waisted denim trousers, button-up shirt knotted off at her belly, high red heels, and brown hair tied up with a scarf. The only thing at all wizarding about the look was the deep blue cloak she wore above it all, lined with bright red satin. Had a penchant for mid-century Muggle aesthetics, she’d admitted to Azira. They always toed the edge while simultaneously retaining a fashionable elegance, and she likened herself to be much the same. He found himself unable to disagree. 

“Healers sent an owl. Told me I could see AJ today, if you give me the go ahead. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll give me the go ahead.” 

“I work with teenagers, dear girl, and I’m partnered with Crowley. I think you’ll find that if your goal is to bully me into a decision, you’re up for a challenge.” 

Valencia pursed her lips as she gave her acquaintance a scrutinizing glance up and down, but betrayed herself with a small smile, “You do like puttin’ up a fight; don’t you, Fell? But everyone knows you’re all fluff in there. ‘S not even a secret. You’re going to give me the go ahead because you know damn well in your big gushy ‘angel’ heart that it’s the right thing.” 

Azira huffed, cursing his own softness as passed her on his trek to the Healer’s station, giving her a pointed look as he did so and receiving a cheeky grin in turn. The Healer at the station rose her head, appearing relieved at the sight of him. He’d made a point over the last week to make friends with those who attended to Crowley, hoping his sweetness would counterbalance the others’ spice. He knew better than anyone that when suffering, the redhead could be a right pill. Without his better tempered partner there, who knew what matter of rude things he was spitting out at the people meant to help him. Luckily, Azira’s plan had worked, as the Healers gave Crowley the very best care and would simply suck their teeth and tell him not to work himself into a state whenever he mouthed off. 

“Azira! I must say, that man of yours is _ quite _the little devil.”

“Good evening, Healer Justinia- dare I ask?”

“I thought that he’d learned his lesson after his little escapade yesterday.” 

Azira’s brows furrowed in confusion and a frown tugged at the corner of his mouth, “What escapade?” 

“Not only did he somehow convince one of the janitorial staff to bring him a pack of cigarettes, but he also snuck up to the balcony on the fifth floor to indulge in them. Healer Thomas was meant to tell you.” 

“And I’m sure a certain wiley old serpent tempted him out of it. Honestly, that man. The nerve! Smoking in his condition? His lungs have hardly healed!” 

“You don’t need to tell me. And if that salts your onions, today he nearly convinced one of the interns to escort him to the cinema down the street! I caught them as they were nearly out the door!” 

Azira turned to glare as Valencia erupted into laughter at the overheard tale of her friend’s mischief. She grinned and raised her hands in a claim of innocence, returning her attention to her magazine. The blonde turned back to the Healer before him.

“Well, Officer,” he sighed, quirking his eyebrows and sharing a disapproving glance, “I believe it’s come time to question our suspect.” 

“Quite,” she laughed, walking with him to Crowley’s room and updating him on his situation, “The heart is strong and steady, and circulation is nearly back up to standard. We’d like to have seen a bit more recovery in the lungs by this point, but Mr. Crowley’s shenanigans are slowing the process down. The phantom pain is still plaguing him, I think that’s the cause of his restlessness- oh, not again.” 

The pair equally matched one another’s exasperated sighs as they entered into the room and found the bed with its sheets awry and mattress unoccupied. 

“He can’t have gone far,” Justinia sighed, fussing with her green robes, “I’ll go tell the other Healers on the floor to have a look out.” 

“Thank you ever so much, my dear. I’m so sorry for all the trouble he’s caused you. I’ll check the hallways.” 

Azira soon found his Healer friend to be quite right. He was only two hallways toward the stairwell before he saw a familiar figure hunched over with an upper arm pressed against a window, shoulders heaving.

“Anthony J. Crowley!” 

“Shite,” Crowley breathed under his breath, caught red-handed. He’d been so sure he would be able to make it to the balcony upstairs and back before it was time for his angel to arrive. Then those blasted pains had popped back up. He thought it’d been a matter of minutes that he’d been stuck in this hallway. Apparently it had been closer to an hour. 

Biting his tongue to withhold any hisses or groans of pain, he rolled his shoulder forward, using the force of his upper back against the cold glass of the window to turn and face the man who’d caught him. 

“Hey there, Angel.” 

“Don’t you ‘Hey there, Angel’ me! Turn out your pockets.” 

Said angel stood there in the hallway, fists on his hips, armed with more determination than any force of nature. Yet Crowley couldn’t help but throw him a devious grin and resort to the instincts that had gotten him out of trouble so many times (but never with Azira, they only served to increase his fussing). 

“Wouldn’t you rather turn them out for me?” 

Azira fixed him with a hard look, but true to nature, it softened as he took in Crowley’s sorry state. He was shaking like a leaf there, clinging to the window frame. His chest was heaving and every inhale had a small, audible wheeze to it. A fair amount of sweat had consolidated on his face, and his short red shocks of hair clung to his forehead. He was a ghostly white that transcended his typical pallor, and dark shadows were distinct beneath his amber eyes. It wasn’t until Azira found them that his aching heart found some relief. Though the object of his affections was in a pitiful form, his eyes were filled with as much life and flirtation and mischief as ever. The blonde sighed through his nose, relaxing his arms and holding out a hand expectantly, beckoning with his index and middle finger. 

“I do believe that would just be rewarding you for bad behavior. Come, now, Dearest. This is the first I’ve seen you all day, let’s not argue.” 

Crowley rested his forehead on the frame of the window, releasing a huff of defeat before reaching into the pocket of the hideous hospital gown he’d been issued and relinquishing an unopened pack of cigarettes into the open palm extended to him. 

“No bloody fun,” he mumbled, fighting to keep his eyes open against the stabbing pains that trembled through his abdomen. 

“Sneaking out of bed for a cigarette. Honestly, Crowley. What were you thinking?” 

“Not for a cigarette,” Crowley half-lied, pressing the whole of his upper back against the glass again and tilting his head back to rest. As far as dramatic performances of portraying wellness went, his were anything but convincing. “Just had to get out of that bloody bed. Feel too well to ch- cha- to b- ch- _ to be chained _ down to it. Fancied myself a walk. On my way back, now.” 

“You don’t say,” Azira hummed with amusement clearly etched on his features, bringing himself closer and drawing a handkerchief from the pocket of his robes. He pushed Crowley’s hair back and gently dabbed the sweat from his forehead, working his way down his features and pressing it to the back of the slender neck he found there. The inpatient allowed out a sigh of relief at the cool sensation and welcome touch, and golden eyes fluttered shut, a clear contradiction to the words their owner spun. The shorter of the pair gave a gentle smile when he heard the exhale, blue eyes looking over Crowley from so close, now, “and whyever did your leisurely stroll end here? You wouldn’t happen to have… oh, I don’t know, found yourself _ stuck _, would you?” 

“‘Mnot stuck, right as rain,” the redhead mumbled belligerently, eyes blinking open to gaze into those sunny skies that he craved more than the ones outside the window just behind him, “Would be better with a kiss, though.”

“You foul fiend,” Azira chided, though he failed at hiding the grin that the shameless request had summoned, “Perhaps if you were a good patient and got back into bed-” 

“Consider it done,” came the overeager interruption. Crowley pressed his palms back against the glass, heaving a breath and willing his arms to quit their blasted shaking as he attempted to dislodge himself from his support. Azira bit his lip, worrying his hands together as he watched the pitiful display.

“Surely, I can help you, Dearest?

“No! Hng- don -dunneed any bloody help,” Crowley snapped, not at Azira in particular, but more generally at the helpless situation he’d found himself in. He flailed an arm to swat away the one that was offered to him, but upon working his already aching stomach muscles to stand upright, he immediately found himself overcome with a pain so acute he lost his vision. A sickening wave of vertigo overcame him, and he let out a deep groan, feeling his head fall against something soft. He wasn’t entirely sure what position he was in, or what was happening around him, but he felt a distinct gratitude at the world in large that he didn’t feel his anguished muscles smack against the cold hardness of the ground. Gentle words were being muttered into his ear, and the smell of leather bound books and parchment and vintage cologne and _ Azira _swirled around him. All in all, for a spell of near-fainting sourced from unfathomable agony, he would mark it down as a relatively pleasant experience. 

“-that’s it. You’re alright, my darling. Come on back. I’m here. I’ve got you. Can you give me those beautiful eyes? Oh, there you are. Marvelous.” 

When Crowley came back around, he lifted his head from Azira’s shoulder, finding himself slumped against the more sturdy man with a secure arm locked around his waist and another hand rubbing the back of his neck. The shorter wizard was fully supporting him and not straining the smallest bit with it. Crowley felt a second wave of dizziness, this time sourced from the incredible strength he’d never imagined to expect from his new man. 

“Nghh,” he groaned, head hanging down as he struggled to find his footing.

Azira craned his neck to look up into his face. For the most part, it was etched with concern. However, the librarian was no stranger to the fact that the more helpless Crowley was, the more he hated being pitied. Thus, Azira fought his base instincts and managed his best teasing grin, “You were saying? Something about how you don’t need any help?” 

“Oh, shut it. You w- wi- win. I need a lie down.” 

“That’s a dear,” Azira encouraged, sounding far too pleased and only drawing a deeper glower from his partner. 

Though his room was only fifty meters away, the journey back was slow, and Crowley tasted blood on his lip from how hard he was biting it. These blasted phantom pains made it hell to be touched, but he wanted nothing more than Azira’s hands on him. After all they’d endured to come together, he refused to let one more thing get between them. 

By the time he felt the mattress shift beneath him, Crowley’s feelings about Azira’s strength had transcended from piqued physical and sexual attraction into more of a practical, innate gratitude. The truth of the matter was less that he had been ‘helped’ back and more that he’d been carried. Mindful hands reached back to fluff and arrange the pillows on the headboard before taking hold of thin, freckled arms and helping Crowley settle back against them. A sigh of relief escaped him as for the first time in the last hour or so, his brutalized body was allowed to relax against the soft support of a bed. 

Again, he found some reprieve as a cloth was pressed to his face and neck. This time it was damp and cool, and along with the sweat that had regathered, it wiped away tears he hadn’t noticed fall in the midst of his suffering. Once his breath evened out again and his lungs stopped burning so terribly much, he turned his head to give Azira a cheeky grin.

“You really are some kind of angel, you know that?”

“Oh no, flattery won’t get you out of this one.” 

Crowley tried to laugh and winced at the burn that resurfaced, spreading like wildfire through his chest. Real pain. Fake pain. It was all too unfair. When the pain subsided, he turned to get a better look at that face he’d grown to love so much and missed all day. Originally, he was sure that convincing the librarian to return to work was a good thing. Azira had a tendency to go quite mad when all he had to do was worry, and in turn, he’d drive the people around him mad, too. Judging by the expression Crowley found on his face now, being away was making him the most worried of all. 

“Wassat?” 

“What’s what, Dearest?” 

“That look on your face. Wassit for?” 

“Oh.” He shifted in his seat, looking like he was battling a vicious war with himself as he sighed through his nose and looked out the window, “You have a visitor. I know you’ll be glad to see them, but I’m worried you’re not well enough for it.”

“Oh, please, Angel. Dun care who it is. I’m losing my fucking mind in here, and it’s just the phantom pains that have me feeling so sorry. ‘S not even real.” 

“It’s real to you,” Azira fussed, adjusting the sheets over Crowley’s stomach before finally meeting the incredulous stare that he knew was waiting for him. He sighed again, sitting straight up in his chair and folding his hands together over his lap, “How is your heart?” 

“Fit as a bloody fiddle, if its banging away like a jackhammer is any indication. Can hardly hear a word you’re saying.” 

Crowley was amused by the storm clouds of panic that invaded Azira’s clear blue eyes. Really, he was such a mother hen, sometimes. 

“Still from that walk here? You’ve had some time to settle down.” 

“No. No, not that. Just something it does around you. Always has done. Mostly used to it by now, but it’s still damn annoying.” 

A bit of a pink hue filled Azira’s cheeks, and he sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes, “Really, Crowley, I meant what I said about flattery.” 

“It’s not- I’m- it’s- just- see for yourself,” Crowley released an affronted huff, taking Azira’s hand and pressing the fingers of it against the pulse below his jaw since the healing wound on his chest left contact with the flesh there out of the question. 

Azira’s mouth fell open and his eyebrows raised in surprise, but indeed, the rhythm against the soft pads of his fingertips was fierce and racing. Crowley had a bit of a pout on his own features, glowering off to the side with a pink tinge flooding his face. Surely, he’d be a considerable amount less embarrassed if it _ was _just sweet talk. But it wasn’t just talk. It was Azira. And Azira had a way of pulling the most exposing secrets to the surface without a hint of the resistance that was so natural to Crowley. Unbridled adoration seeped into the angel’s gaze, and he gave a smile so genuine and pure that it made Crowley’s breath hitch and his heart race even faster. When Azira felt the pace pick up in response, his smile grew even wider, and even the pure-blood’s ears went crimson red. 

“Oh you sweet, sweet man!” the blonde cooed, shifting to sit on the bed so it was easier to take that handsome (albeit tired) face in his soft but strong hands and kiss it all over. 

“‘Mnot ‘sweet’,” Crowley growled, though whilst growing accustomed to the onslaught of kisses’ existence outside his dreams it came out as more of a pouting whine, “If I’m any flavor, it’s hot and spicy. Like chili peppers.” 

“Whatever you say, my darling,” Azira hummed, nuzzling his nose against Crowley’s cheek, “Little bits of chili peppers, mixed in with an abundance of milk chocolate.” 

“Mmmh, not like you to resist the temptation of a taste,” he managed out in an attempt to regain a bit of the composure he was sure he left around here somewhere. 

“Oh my, you _ do _have me all figured out, don’t you?” Azira teased back, gladly taking the bait and placing a kiss against Crowley’s mouth that, however languid, was so utterly indulgent it left the wounded man hazy-eyed and panting against his lips when they parted.

“How’s it taste?” Crowley hummed, giving a wicked grin as he bit his own lip and stared hungrily down at Azira’s, face flushed beneath it’s spattering of still-present freckles. The blonde’s heart skipped at least three beats at witnessing this man- _ his _man- so out of sorts from just a touch of adoring praise, a single kiss, and a cuddle. He reminded himself that he really needed to exploit this starvation for affirmation as soon as his darling was in a proper condition to get all hot and bothered. 

“Sweeter than I remembered, but you’re right,” he bumped his pointed nose against Crowley’s hooked one and traced a thumb down the front of his throat, catching that baited breath beneath it, “Has a bit of a kick to it. Addictive, really.” 

The redhead gave a wild, hopeless grin, eyelashes fluttering as he fought to maintain some semblance of self-control. Azira was sure his heart was beating just as wildly as his partner’s had been only moments before. Sure, Crowley was a tempting, pretty thing, radiating of sex and excitement and inciting of lust. The redhead played with his targets, ever in control, ever aware of every single action and word, but this was something else entirely. With his Angel, he fell to bits, let every bit of cognizance slip from his grasp, and filled himself to overflow with faith that Azira would catch him. 

“There’s something to be said for seconds, you know,” he mumbled into the corner of Azira’s mouth. 

“Well it’d be _ rude _ to decline,” Azira reasoned, feeling quite like a sailor, summoned by the most beautiful siren song and pulled out to sea as he delved back against Crowley’s mouth. No evidence of their hardship existed there. No guilt manifested to mark how long he’d made him wait. There were no bitter reminders of cruelty or resentments harbored- only that unique tongue inviting him in to play and eager to tease the full extent of its abilities. Azira found himself quite taken by it, falling into soft, pulsing patterns of working his mouth against his lover’s in the way he’d only dreamed of. Of sharp, clicking teeth against soft lips- he wasn’t sure whose was whose, any more. Of wrestling so eagerly with that wicked tongue and leaning in for more, because it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. How could he ever get enough of Anthony J. Crowley? It wasn’t until his darling dared a teasing bite to his lower lip that the blonde regained his senses, coming back to himself and hearing the way Crowley wheezed on his quickening inhales. He broke their kiss, clearing his throat and doing all but shaking his head to rid the dizziness and heat that was swirling there, fogging his senses. 

Abruptly, he rose from the bed, clearing his throat, “enough of that, you wicked thing.” 

Crowley managed a pout, and Azira was sure he was the only man of his age that could do so without looking utterly ridiculous. He took on a playful tone, “And here I thought you found me tasty. Did I do something wrong? Too much teeth?” 

Azira huffed, turning a distinct shade of pink and suddenly finding a telephone pole outside the window to be remarkably interesting, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve a guest waiting, remember?” 

“Ah yes, my mystery guest. Better be good, robbing me of a good snog.” 

With pursed lips and a sharp look that was far too soft to be effective, Azira adjusted his cloak and felt around his pocket for the gift he’d been meant to deliver, “Not sure I ought to be indulging you anyway. After all, you’re not exactly in proper condition to be ‘snogging’, as you so crassly call it.” 

“Isn’t that subjective, really? And everyone calls it that, Angel. At least, everyone who hasn’t been teleported in from the nineteenth century.” 

Azira rolled his eyes, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment he’d kept pressed in his current book to keep from crumpling, “Glad you’re feeling feisty enough for visitors, Dearest. Before I step out, I’ve been asked to pass this along to you.” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the extended, colorful card, taking it with a cynicism in his eyes that immediately melted as he read the words “Get Well Soon, Professor Crowley!” in Hagatha Howler’s familiar, immaculate script.

“That lot shouldn’t know about this,” he finally said after a prolonged gaze at the front of the card, “I don’t want them w- wor a- worrying about me” 

“The prophet did a tactless report on the two of us, I’m afraid. The students are in quite a state over it. They were practically lined up the library door to throw themselves at me and have a good cry. Had to change my robes before I came. It was all very moving; I hadn’t the slightest idea they cared one way or another about me.” 

The corner of Crowley’s mouth turned up a bit, and he gave Azira a gentle look that was absolutely doused in love, reaching out to squeeze his hand, “‘course they do, you nutter. I’ve told you before, you do more for them than any of us.” 

Azira cleared his throat, all at once finding himself quite misty eyed, and returned the smile, tightening his hold around Crowley’s fingers in turn. Abruptly, he cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes and making his way to the door, “Right, I’ll leave you to it, then. If they were so excited to see me, I can’t imagine what they’ll do upon your return. They’ll likely throw you a parade.” 

“You are coming back, aren’t you?” Crowley asked, attempting to maintain a laid-back energy about the question, but the urgency in his voice betrayed him, pulling a smile from Azira. 

Hand on the doorknob, his angel was brought to a halt and turned back to give him a loving, reassuring glance, “Of course, Dearest. I’ll be right outside.” 

“Right,” the redhead mumbled, turning his attention back to the object in his hands as Azira took his leave. 

He flipped open the card and laughed as he immediately read Adhya’s much more chaotic chicken scratch writing out “Or as you say, ‘Get back on the bloody broom’!” On the other page, a little moving cartoon was drawn of what he assumed to be himself, riding a broomstick and waving around a beater’s bat. Coriander Talpin must have drawn that, he always did have a knack for drawing. There were scribbled notes all over the blank space of the card, fading in and out and being replaced by others. There must have been hundreds of them. Crowley only had time to read about twenty. Some were short and to the point in message, but others would sprawl around the page, thanking the Herbologist for all he’d done, sharing funny memories and anecdotes with him, confiding their hopes for his health and heartfelt adoration. When the doorknob turned, his hands quickly raised to do away with the evidence of emotion that had long since begun dripping down his face, and the card was set mindfully to the side. He cleared his throat, looking up and giving a cheeky grin when he spotted Valencia. 

“I’ve got a fashionista in my midst. What’s the occasion?” 

She froze in the doorway, and appeared to Crowley much like a person who was being stared down by a Hungarian Horntail. There was distinct fear in her eyes, and her friend looked for haziness or confusion there alongside it but only found a remarkable lucidity. He groaned a bit from the pain of the effort as he leaned to look behind her, expecting there to have been a healer that escorted her here. 

“Cat got your tongue, V?” 

“I’m…,” she started, shifting and swallowing so hard it was visible before fussing to shut the door. Her hands rested against it, and Crowley noted that someone else had painted her nails. He wondered who. Perhaps Azira had visited her since he couldn’t make his bi-weekly visit? That would be just like his angel to be thoughtful like that. He watched as the figure took a deep breath, and when she turned back, a grin was on her features.

“Occasion is I’m visiting my best friend, is all.” The hesitation was gone from her voice as she moved to sit next to him. She was putting on her brave face, he immediately noted. He wondered whatever for. 

“Ohh, done up nice for me? Color me flattered.” 

“Well. You look like the dead walking; I had to look good enough for the both of us. We have reputations to keep up, you know,” Valencia teased, quirking a shoulder and giving a mischievous grin that pulled a laugh from him that quickly spiraled into a coughing fit. Her face traced with concern.

“Yeahhh, ah. Ran into a bit of trouble, that’s all.” Crowley was used to explaining away things that might be too difficult for her to provide context with. He wasn’t, however, used to the painful look in response that she was giving him now. 

“Brought you dinner,” she interjected suddenly, withdrawing a sandwich from wax paper, “Guessing the Healers have been harassing you nonstop about eating.” 

“Your guess is right. Driving me bloody mad- this isn’t from here. Where’d you get this? Did Azira put you up to this?” 

When he looked to her for a response, he found green eyes boring into him. There was a world of emotion there, more than he’d seen in her eyes in years. There was a foundation of adoration, coated in shadows cast over by clouds of worry and doubt. But amongst it all, little spirits of other notions flitted about: amazement, joy, and confusion all played there in equal measure. His hands slowed from unwrapping the wax paper. He was used to her filtering in and out, but this was different. She wasn’t slipping away. She was here. She was present. 

“Val? You alright?” 

With a smile and a nod, he raised a brow at her, giving a mumble of, “If you say so,” before taking a few bites into the sandwich. 

“And what variety of sand does this one taste like?” 

“Ah, you know. The kind by riverbeds with little rocks all mixed in. Gritty and mineral, w- wwwh- what a joy.” 

“Delicious,” she deadpanned before sharing a grin with her friend. 

She vented her anxiety by digging her teeth into her lip without a bit of mercy, watching as he placed the sandwich onto the side table. Crowley let out a long sigh through his nose, looking quite tired before giving her a devious smile.

“Hey, you got any cigs?” 

“Ohhh, yeah. Sure do,” she cooed, taking them out of her pocket and shaking them about. 

“You’re bloody perfect, you know that? Open the window for me.” 

She did so, and just as he reached for the box, she chucked it out the newly opened space, crossing her legs and giving him an innocent grin, eyelashes batting. Crowley gaped out the window, then at her, narrowing his eyes.

“I take it back. You’re a frigid bitch.” 

“How frigid?”

“An ice queen.”

“But royalty nonetheless,” she bristled with a cheeky smirk. It faded a bit, into something more comfortable and tender. Green eyes cast down at her hands, watching her fingers fiddle at the lining of her cape before raising again to look at Crowley’s familiar golden eyes. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she marveled, “You’re not wearing your glasses. You used to never dare take them off.” 

His smile wavered, and his brows furrowed. Occasionally, Val would be in the present, but ‘used to’ always referred to earlier school years, as at the most, she would assume them to both still be in their seventh. There was an odd feeling churning in his stomach that this was something else. She was talking about the then of their childhood versus the now of their being thirty-eight, sitting together here, in this room.

“I’m glad you’re awake, it’s been Hell this last week. All I could think of is how bloody bad I wanted to talk to you ‘bout all of it. It’s all so much.” 

Crowley frowned, wondering if she could possibly be suggesting she’d been lucid the whole of his hospitalization. That wasn’t possible. She was never clear-minded for more than a day or so.

“What’ve you be- up- bee- been up to?” he asked, surprised by the fear and uncertainty in his own familiar voice. His heart was beating out of orbit, and he hadn’t the slightest clue why.

“Oh, you know,” she started, eyes growing watery as she reached to take his hand, “Learning all sorts of new things. Sounds like you’ve been awfully busy the last twenty years, _ Crowley.” _

Golden eyes went wide, and serpentine pupils narrowed into slits as Crowley gaped at her. 

“What are you saying, Val?” he asked, blinking the tears out of his view. This couldn’t be real. He was under the effects of some pain-killing potion. Hallucinating. Hoping. He had to hear it. 

Valencia let out a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, hand shaking as she squeezed her best friend’s. 

Her voice was shaking but sure as she laughed out, “¡Lo lograste, Tony! Encontraste la cura. Estoy tan orgullosa de ti.” 

Anthony didn’t care that his limbs were screaming at him to stop. He didn’t care that the sob ripped from his lungs sent a burning sensation through them. He didn’t care about the shock of his healing chest wound as it pressed against her. He didn’t care that the pain of it all made his vision go all spotty and his head spin. He’d embraced Valencia a number of times over the last twenty years, held her when the terrors got too bad, cried into her chest when he just couldn't handle the impossibility of the situation anymore, but as he sat here, their arms wrapped around one another and his face buried into her neck, it felt like he was holding her for the first time in twenty years. They remained in the embrace for what felt like an eternity before finally pulling away. He held her face in his hands, and she wrapped her hands around his upper arms in turn, minding to keep it gentle. 

“How? I don’t… I never…” 

“Arapaima got your letter ‘bout Beez. Said she knew I’d be the only one to crack it. You had it all written out. Brilliant, you. And it worked. It was like… like wakin’ up. Know how bears feel when they come out of hibernation, now. AJ, it’s all so different. I can’t make sense of it. Can’t even look in a bloody mirror. I’m so happy to be here with you. I’m so proud of this amazing thing you’ve done. But I don’t know how to go ‘bout it.” 

Crowley didn’t bother correcting the bastardization of Anathema’s name. He gave Val a long look and a cheeky grin, wiping one of her tears away with his thumb, “We’ll get through it together and raise Hell doin’ it. Always have done. Don’t you worry. W- wh- what’s that thing Mum always says? ‘Al mal tiempo, bueno cara’?”

Valencia burst vigorously into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, covering her mouth and looking at Crowley with absolute adoration.

“What? That’s it, isn’ it?”

“Yo- you’re tellin- tellin me that our family’s let you go on talkin’ like that for _ twenty years?” _

Crowley pouted, pulling away and wobbling unsteadily at the lack of support. Valencia’s laughter diminished into giggles she couldn’t seem to withhold while helping guide Crowley back against the pillows again. 

“I am fluent now, you know.” 

“Not sure that matters when you speak it with that ridiculous _ thick English accent,” _she burst into her fit of laughter all over again, kicking her feet against the floor gleefully, “Do it again! Say somethin’!” 

“How about 'que te den’?” Crowley growled, glowering further as Valencia snorted, covering her whole face as she shook from hysterics, “this makes it hard to be glad you’re lucid again, you know.” 

“Glad to see you’re still so sensitive. Makes it all the more fun to tease you! Speaking of which- Azira Fell?” she asked whilst wiping away her tears of glee.

Valencia was wise enough to know when to quit, lest Crowley pout for the whole evening. She happened to bring up the one subject that could make the sneer of bitterness on his face melt away into something soft and adoring. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said, voice airy and eyes dreamy as he looked out the window, “Wild, that. Isn’t it? Never thought it would happen. Still can’t quite believe it. How do you two get on?”

“Like oil and water- oh don’t give me that face. We have an understanding, he and I. Joined forces for a common cause and all that, but don’t you go expecting me to join his bloody book club or ask him to tea,” she warned. 

Crowley looked a bit put out, but waved his hands through the air in surrender, “Wouldn’t dare. You approve, though?” 

She chewed her cheek as she looked him up and down. 

“Yeah. I’d be mad not to. He acts like you hung the bloody stars.” 

Crowley got that love struck look again and couldn’t help but grin like an idiot, earning an eye roll from his old friend, “Treats me better than I deserve, that’s for sure.” 

“Well, you never did have a good sense for what it was you deserved,” Valencia argued, “which is undoubtedly better than you’ve had it. All this nonsense with Death Eaters and a third war and pure-blood elitism or subjugation. Feel you wouldn’t have gotten all wrapped up in it if I were here. When I saw you in that fucking place-”

“You were there?” Crowley cut in, face losing all color at the mere thought of the dungeons of Crawly manor. 

“... yes. When we figured out it was Beez that took you and learned that Crawly manor had been abandoned I- I dunno, had a gut feeling that’s where we'd find you. Healers nearly pissed their pants when I had to rough them up to get my wand back, but the moment I did, we went.”

“You fucking idiot!” 

Valencia scoffed, gaping and squinting incredulously at the fury contorted into Crowley’s features. “You wanna try that again, mijo?” 

“I don’t! You’re dead from the neck up, you are! You recover from the effects of an unforgivable curse after _ twenty years _and the first blessed thing you do is throw yourself back into the thick of it?” 

“So- what? I was just supposed to leave you there for dead? And what about Azira, he wouldn’t have done much better! Besides, you’re one to be lecturing me- all you went through and you got mixed up in it all over again!”

Crowley bit his tongue, gyrating his jaw as he fixed his glare at the far wall. 

“Just like you. Rushing in without a bloody thought.” 

“You’re one to talk! Risking your neck because you’re too stubborn to rat out a damn brat!” 

A long silence passed between them, both friends’ tempers licking about the room with their searing flames and both battling with a stubbornness that made them equally opposed to the idea of exhibiting anything close to surrender. 

At last, Crowley let out a quick huff of air through his nose, and when Valencia turned to look down her nose at him, she was surprised to find him suppressing a grin. 

“...what?” she asked, finally allowing her curiosity to surpass her pride. 

“I missed fighting with you,” he admitted, “stupid, innit?” 

“Yeah, stupid like you,” she mumbled, though her lips begrudgingly quirked into their own little smirk, “I’m glad, though. That we can still fight. I thought-... I was scared you’d be so different that I wouldn’t recognize you anymore.” 

“Oh c’mon now. How could I be that different? Like you said, I’m as s- sss- st- stubborn as ever,” Crowley jested, earning a less guarded smile from his best friend. His own face fell a bit, “A lot has changed, though. For me, and for you. Wish I had more time for us to wrap our heads around it, figure it out together before I went back to work.” 

A secret little look glimmered in Valencia’s eye, and she gave him a shove in his arm, ignoring as he hissed at her from the pain, “Don’t fret about that. We’ll have all the time in the world.” 

He looked at her suspiciously up and down, rubbing his aching arm with a question in his eyes, “What are you on about, Heller?” 

A wild, happy smile bloomed across her face, and she leaned forward to cross her arms over her knee, “Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s goin’ off to rejoin Aurors after what’s happened. McGonagall asked me to come on ‘til end of term, seeing as I always was lightyears ahead in the subject and don’t have anything else goin’ on. She did say- what was it? That you’re ‘responsible for keeping me out of shenanigans’. Watch out, AJ, don’t plan on making it easy for you.” 

“So-,” he started, golden eyes wide and glimmering with a cocktail of hope and excitement.

_ “So,” _ she answered with a cheshire grin, “I believe that’s _ Professor _Heller, to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo again! Sorry for leaving you guys out to dry for so long~
> 
> Will Valencia ever learn to say Anathema's name properly? It's less likely than ya think.
> 
> This chapter ran longer than I intended, which maybe wouldn't have happened if SOME PEOPLE *glares at Azira and Crowley* would give a little on the incessant flirting, but it's okay, because I think it leaves a very nice set of feel-good scenes left over for me to gift to you all tomorrow on Valentine's Day!


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley sneaks out of the hospital to make the return home. He brings the new substitute Defense Against the Dark Arts with him and introduces her to Hogwarts in the year of 2019. The students are elated upon discovering the arrival of their favorite professor. Crowley relishes his newfound freedom and uses the time to catch up with his friends.

The spires of the familiar Gothic castle that soared high above the two figures standing on the bridge below were masked in a thick gathering of grey, low hanging clouds, rendering them invisible to the naked eye. What came down from the imposing overcast heavens could hardly be described as snow, but didn’t quite fit into the category of rain, either. Whatever the substance, it was nearly imperceptible if one was standing still, yet it mixed into the mud of the ruined grounds (they’d been victim to endless storms of varying nature the last week or so) and created an awful slush of offensive earthly matter that would squelch underfoot seep into any shoe, no matter how high it covered the leg. Not a trace of sunshine managed its way through the stubborn sky, making the great stone architecture appear anything but warm and inviting. The trees and plants around the building, always so carefully maintained and manicured, were still bare from winter, as spring had not yet wormed its way up to the Highlands. Overall, the scene looked like something out of a horror movie.

But not to Crowley. To Crowley, this was more beautiful than any savanna he’d seen in South Africa. It was more peaceful than any beaches Colombia could boast. It brought him more happiness than any sunny Spanish vineyard. It was the one place that had been by far the most painful to imagine he might never see again. It was where he belonged. 

“Home sweet home, eh?” he looked over at the figure beside him, who had fallen all but silent since the moment the castle came into view on the horizon. They were just past the gates now, standing in the main entrance courtyard. 

Valencia didn’t respond, didn’t crack a smile, just took in the vast view before them, slipping into its clutches and feeling held tight. 

The corner of the wizard’s mouth tugged downwards. She’d been teasing him mercilessly only a few minutes ago. Was this too triggering for her? 

“Do you… you want to go in?” 

A short nod confirmed that yes, she did, although green eyes never once flicked away from the castle currently dwarfing them. He nodded in turn, reaching down to grab one of the trunks she’d set down and receiving a sharp smack to the hand. 

“Oy!” he hissed, shaking the abused fingers before holding them in his other hand. 

“Healer said no heavy lifting,” she reminded him shortly. 

“Tha’s alright! I can get it from ‘ere! Wouldn’ wan’ good ole Professor Crowley poppin’ back to St Mungo's the secon’ he gets ‘ome! ‘Course I could say the same about you, Professor ‘eller!”

Val’s eyes went wide as they shifted to fix ahead, and Crowley wondered how she possibly could have missed the lumbering half-giant’s approach. 

“Hagrid!” she half-sobbed, abandoning her belongings to clatter on the ground as she buried her face in the towering man’s stomach. 

“Migh’y good to see yer face, Valencia. Knew we could trust Tony ‘ere ter bring yeh back,” he responded with a clear waver in his voice and eyes as watery as they could possibly get. A handkerchief was retrieved from his pocket and he dabbed at his eyes before the tears could fall, giving the witch a comforting pat on the back. 

She sobbed something into his jacket that was too muffled to truly hear, but both in her company assumed it roughly translated to, “It’s good to see you too!” 

“Now, now, no more tears. This is a ‘appy day!”

The reassurance proved to be effective, as Valencia pulled away, flashing a smile and giving a short nod as she worked to wipe away her tears. 

“Right. I’ll take care of all this, an’ yeh take care ter make sure she’s settled,” Hagrid sniffled at Crowley with as much enforcement as he can muster which, understandably, was very little. 

The redhead gave a cheeky salute and grinned as he walked backwards to the door. “Sir, yes sir!” 

Crowley sauntered through the doors with one hand partially stuffed in a pocket and the other arm wrapped around a plant Anathema had so mindfully delivered to the hospital. Upon his entrance into the great castle, he made straight for the route to his office nearly on the farest side of the castle from where they stood. He slowed when he didn’t hear the echo of feet trailing after him. Indeed, while Valencia was ghosting his path, she took it at a much slower pace. Her eyes wandered about her surroundings, soaking in every last detail. 

“Looks… looks the same,” she sighed finally. 

Crowley gave her a long look, offering a smile past the worry he felt, “Yeah. Whoever did the reconstruction spells did a bang-up job. Come on, now. Plenty of time for wandering. Third period’s nearly over and if you’re overwhelmed now, just wait until the brats spot you. Any one of them could be an investigator with their propensity for questioning every blessed thing.” 

She didn’t crack a smile but instead nodded again, the same dreamy, far-off look on her face. The message must have gotten to her though, because she was quick to his side, now. That was good, he figured. If she was listening to him, it meant she hadn’t gone catatonic. He wished he could get inside her head. Wished he could know if she was hearing and seeing the awful things they’d witnessed what had been twenty years ago for him and only a meager two weeks, for her. Perhaps, in this instance, to barrel on with their one-sided conversation would be the best contribution to her retainment of a present state of mind.

“Mind how you go with the Grand Staircase. Paintings are as fucking awful of gossips as they ever were. Sure they’ll get lost in their frames when they hear you’re back. Even more certain Peeves will be giddy as a glumbumble to see you, though.” 

He didn’t look this time, but out of his peripheral, he noted that she nodded again. It was a struggle to find things to talk about as they made their way to the very back corner of the castle’s ground floor. As mystical and ever-altering as Hogwarts was constructed, it was no more peculiar or different than how it had changed on weekly bases back in their school years. It might have been easier if it _ was _her first time here- if he was only introducing her to a place. But instead, he’d been saddled with the task of introducing her to a time. He didn’t know where to even start. So much was the same. It was the people that had changed. As much as she didn’t like it, and as much as she didn’t know how yet, she’d changed too. How was he supposed to introduce her to a stranger that she would find with every glance in the mirror?

“Here’s something that’ll be a bit different,” he offered weakly, trying to sound confident and sure as he swung open the door of his office, “Damn it all. Neville’s gone and ‘organized it’. It’ll take weeks to find anyth- is that a _ fucking spot?” _

Crowley’s fussing over the office always kept in a peculiar condition of particularity snapped abruptly to one of the plants inhabiting the windowsill. It immediately started quaking, leaves shuffling against each other as they trembled in the air far too cool for the Herbologist’s liking.

“Damn right, you should be afraid! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? And here you’ve been- you’ve been _ coddled _ by the world’s most problematically kind Herbologist and you have the _ bloody nerve _ to allow a _ spot? _That’s it, I’ve got a special place for you.” 

Forgetting his company, the professor slammed down the plant he was holding and grabbed the culprit by its stem, its potted roots dangling below his fist. He walked away from the row of quivering plants, all eagerly reaching out their blossoms and leaves to show that they had not been unwise enough to share the same transgression. Valencia watched the door slam to a separate room, followed by the distant sound of a breaking pot and a bit more yelling before Crowley revealed himself again. At last, she allowed a bit of a grin to bloom on her face as he seemed to have, in his tornado of fury, forgotten she’d been observing from the sidelines. 

“Oh, yeah, but uh… different, right? ‘Course I couldn’t get those blasted paintings off the wall.” 

“I’ve never been in here. Never had reason to,” she reminded her friend.

“Oh,” he said, stupidly, “right. Well, ‘s my office.” 

For some reason, he felt a bit nervous as she walked around the room, and in the moment of vulnerability, felt inclined to dig through a desk drawer for a spare pair of sunglasses and perch them on his face. For all his dreaming of finding the cure and Valencia’s return, he’d never really spent the time to think it out in detail. He’d never considered what she’d make of his life. He certainly hadn’t imagined her back here, at Hogwarts, walking around his office, peering at every picture he had up, and judging every available detail in sight. She opened a journal on his desk to peer inside, confusion and a touch of frustration held within the lines that appeared on her face subsequently.

“This… doesn’t look like Herbology…” 

“Oh, yeah, well. Gets deeper than that when you start figuring out the actual properties and applications. Had to learn alchemy.” 

It was her turn to give a dumbfounded expression, green eyes boring into him, “You’re an… alchemist, now?” 

“Dunno, wouldn’t go that far. Took an awfully deep dive into the subject, though. It’s important when you get as involved in the Herbology field as I have. S- ssss- same with Potions. Then I’m doing my own research on Time Magic but-” 

“What’s this?” she quickly moved on, only half listening to him. With her perfectly manicured fingers, she sifted through the thick stack of parchment and journals that composed the most recent developments of his book. 

“Oh. Book I’m workin’ on. Detailing the properties of plants I found when looking for the Aconitu-,” a sharp glare in his direction quickly had him rephrasing, “the, er, plant that brought you back. Already been writing with an old mate in the Ministry’s Potion Industry department and she guarantees it’ll be tested next week. Has me on a fast track. Found lots of plants that I could shift my research to. One of them might even cure dementi-”

Val had shifted focus again, having perused personal photos as her friend went on about his life. This time she was examining a picture of him at the start of last term with this year’s Hufflepuff Quidditch team after tryouts had concluded, “Thought professors weren’t supposed to have house favorites.”

Crowley felt a bit overwhelmed at her quickly shifting attention. She couldn’t hold a conversation, but she did find it in her to ask quite a few questions. He couldn’t help but liken her to the overly inquisitive students he had just mentioned a few moments ago.

“Well… worked here ten years now. Just got promoted to Head of Hufflepuff and- I dunno, like taking time to coach the kids. Can’t really play anymore, so it keeps me involved.” 

Yet another long look that he couldn’t possibly decipher. She passed over the picture of them as kids, of he and Azira at the Yule Ball, of he and Anathema laughing over a card game, of their whole family, sans Emile, with Valencia arranged smiling in the middle only a few years back, but it wasn’t until she reached one of her, Neville, and Crowley standing and grinning in a Spanish vineyard at roughly age twenty-three that she stopped. Her brows furrowed. Leaning in to look closer, she caught her reflection in the glass protecting the picture. She took a harsh intake of breath and leapt back as if she’d been burnt. Crowley rushed forward, reaching out to grab her arm and beholding an upheld hand indicating for him not to lay a finger on her.

She stood still save for a small bit of shaking, her other hand sprawled across her face as she took deep breaths in and out. After what felt like an eternity, she lowered her hand and blinked several times to rid herself of the unfallen tears that rendered her vision bleary. Her friend stood beside her, appearing just as distraught. What was he meant to do? How was he supposed to fix this? What could even be said? 

As if nothing had happened, she helped herself to walking past him and into his private quarters. 

“Oh that’s- sure just go through my shit, why don’t you?” he offered sarcastically. 

She was taking it up even before he’d spoken. The slightest indication of a smile danced on her lips as she pointedly looked at the plant Crowley had removed from the other room, sitting unscathed in its pot on a table riddled with its brethren. The ‘time-out’ table, it was safe to assume. A brow raised at him, and he bristled, leaning his shoulder against the door frame and looking away in a clear defiance to acknowledge his own softness. 

The familiar, distant toll of the clock tower rang out through the silence to indicate lunchtime.

“Third period’s over. If I hurry on with a ss- a sh- sha- _ shower _ we can make the tail end of lunch. Was hoping to surprise Anathema and Azira.” 

“He’s going to be cross with you,” she warned while running her fingers over the hanged contents of his wardrobe before shifting her attention to a crate of records. The sound of her teasing voice in lieu of yet another question brought Crowley some small comfort. However, he didn’t need reminding of the lecture he was bound to receive. After all, the Healers urged him to take an extra half week in hospital to recover. The school wasn’t even expecting him back (or Valencia’s arrival) until the beginning of next week. He’d learned (after midnight snooping through hospital records) that while he would be behooved to remain in care, he technically qualified to go home. The Healers had begrudgingly discharged him, all while urging him to at least refrain from returning to work until the predetermined date. Still, with his home and work being the same place- what could possibly be the harm?

“Oh, he’ll mean to be, but just you wait, he’ll see how happy I am to be back and lose the nerve. Bet you five sickles on it.” 

She was elbow-deep into a sleek, modern wooden chest now, a look of confusion carved deeply onto her face as she pulled out brand name heels and expensive women’s clothing. She looked at the label of a particular black cut-out mini dress she quite fancied and turned to Crowley, gaping. 

“Why isn’t this hung up? It’s thrown in here like an old washrag!” 

“Oh.” His demeanor turned cold for the first time. He adjusted his sunglasses with a grateful recollection of how useful they could be and shrugged, remaining in his place at the doorway as he gazed in the direction of his kitchenette. “Don’t need them anymore. Take whatever you like.” 

“Oh yeah, because it’ll totally fit me. Even with a transition potion and even after twenty years, you’ve got to be… what? A UK size 6? Double A cup? With my curves these would never fit.” 

“Hey! At least an A!” he bristled at the accusation. Soon after, he seemed to recall something, scoffing and waving a dismissive hand, “But that’s not- point is, I don’t want them. I’m done with that.” 

“Done with-...,” Valencia started, eyeing him with curiosity. A frown took over her features. Some of these labels indicated clothing as recent as this last year. Obviously, Crowley had taken great care (and invested great amounts) into maintaining a diversely gendered wardrobe until very recently. She looked back with concern. This was the trouble with being absent for so long. She hadn’t the faintest clue what had happened to him in these last twenty years. She could only venture to guess. She tried to keep her voice gentle, but not suspiciously so, as she questioned him further, “done with what? With being genderfluid? I don’t think that’s the sort of thing one _ decides, _AJ. Suppressing something like that-” 

Whatever patience Valencia had been wearing at had rubbed straight through at her new line of questioning. Crowley huffed, coming forth to swat her away from the chest, uncaringly wad up the dress in his hand, and throw it back in before thwacking the heavy wooden lid shut. He passed her to go to the wardrobe she’d previously been going through, finding a clean set of robes to set out for after his shower and growling as he went, “Have you got your fill of scrutinizing all my shit? Fancy a peek in my pants drawer?” 

Valencia frowned at his back, concerned at the obvious pain flourishing beneath whatever facade this was. The angry look she was met with faded. Crowley cursed it all. For so long, he’d gone without anyone seeing through his outbursts of anger and snide, masking the truth of what was hiding beneath. Then there was Azira. Now, there was Valencia, too. He was outnumbered. He slowed as he laid the clothes out on his well made-bed. As his fingers smoothed out the fabric, he wondered who had taken the time to tidy his room. Neville? Anathema? Azira? He felt Valencia’s worried gaze washing over him like a tidal wave.

“Didn’t mean that,” he said shortly, “What’s mine is yours. B- w- bu- wi- with- but with this, I don’t want to talk about it. I’m serious, V.” 

She gave a hesitant nod, her mouth offering a smile that didn’t nearly meet her eyes. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one here to feel confused and lost. Anthony turned slightly, raising a hand to cross over his chest and grab the other arm. For a moment, she swore it was twenty years ago, and he was standing before her in that exact same position, indicating a fear of betraying whatever truth was swarming within him. He felt transparent, vulnerable. Valencia found the same impulse to protect him now as she did then. 

“That’s alright, then,” she finally said, a lightness in her voice that she worked hard to put there, “I’ll let you get to it. I ought to go start unpacking. Gonna look a bit bare bones compared to the little art gallery you’ve got set up in here. So sleek and modern. Hell, you’ve even got that wicked portrait. Can’t say I have anything like it. Might be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

What she was referring to was clearly the focal point of the room, hung over the fireplace and in front of a chaise lounge that, judging by the many blankets and afghans draped over it, was reserved solely for napping in the sunlight that came through the windows. The painting was a large, modern thing. It was quite abstract, but featured an angled face, framed with red hair and boasting large snake-like eyes that gleamed with different shades of gold as they shifted. A stemmed glass of wine dangled from oblong fingers sporting black nail polish. A myriad of different greenery surrounded the scene, the vines and leaves of which swirled and wriggled about the edges of the painting. Occasionally, the figure in the painting would grin and tip his chin, or swirl his wine glass and take a sip. 

Crowley peaked over at the amazed look on Valencia’s face as she stood not a foot away from the piece, marveling over every miniscule detail she could find- and there were plenty. He grinned, forgetting the upset of a moment prior, and made his way to stand beside her.

“Well, you’ll just have to ask Manny to paint you one, too. Sure he’d be glad to.” 

Green eyes snapped to where his sunglasses sat on his nose, and an absolutely gobsmacked look appeared on Valencia’s face. Crowley’s grin grew toothy. 

“You ain’t fibbin’? That squirrely, nervous little wimp did _ this?” _

“Oy! That’s _ our _squirrely, nervous little wimp you’re talkin’ about. He turned out alright, eh?” 

“Yeahhhh,” she agreed, throwing Crowley a warm smile and gently bumping against his arm with her shoulder, “You did too, for the record.” 

Surprise betrayed itself on Crowley’s features. He’d been preparing to defend his life here. Ready to explain why it was so different than what she surely expected of him. Steeling himself for her disappointment. To receive her approval chased away all the anxiety that plagued him since their arrival. Slowly, a loving smile quirked upon his lips. 

“Wish I could say the same for Emiliano. Not having the precious time to visit his sister after she’s been incapacitated for two bloody decades. Suspicious he’s become a bit of an arse.”

Crowley was unable to retain the abrupt scoff that was ripped from his chest, nor the dramatic swinging of his head as he rolled his eyes, “More like a proper tosser.” 

“Oooh. There’s a story behind that. You’ll have to tell me later.” 

“And I’ll have to steel myself for it,” he muttered, already thinking up at least a dozen different scenarios of the punishments he would suffer at Val’s hands after she discovered his last relationship. “Right. Off with you. I’ll come up later to introduce you to-” 

“Fuckbody. Right. Can’t wait to see what winning personality earned a nickname like that from you,” she teased with a grin. Crowley found his heart swarming with relief that she’d come around from the distant state she’d been stuck in earlier. His worries that this had been the wrong choice, that being here would be bad for her all drifted out the window. 

“You need help finding-”

“Oh, shut your trap. Don’t patronize me. Feels like just last week I lived here.”

“Right,” he faltered, smiling unsurely, “keep your eyes peeled for the Fat Friar, he’ll never let you escape conversation if he catches you muckin’ about.” 

She laughed and waved over her shoulder as she retreated from the Herbology office, leaving Crowley alone in his silent quarters. With a long sigh and a deep groan, Crowley indulged himself to sink into the chaise behind him, sprawling out on the deep red velvet upholstery and glancing around at the familiar space. It wasn’t much, but it was home. If the clouds would just cease their rampage, the sun would come in and wash over him with its warmth. He looked over to the table of plants on the far wall, a bit of a smile coming to his face thinking of Neville fussing over and caring for them. They had always retained opposite strategies in approaching their work. His own was to put the fear of Crowley into the fauna he worked with. Neville’s was to whisper soft praise and encouragement. 

He had to wonder if his old friend was doing half as well with the students. Of course, he was a good teacher and a knowledgeable and kind person, but commanding attention and taking disciplinary action (or even considering it) weren’t exactly in his wheelhouse. Perhaps he’d relieve him after lunch- then again, it was likely none of his friends here would allow him to return to work before the week was out.

_ My friends, _he thought fondly, heart fluttering inside his chest. He smiled at the comforting notion. 

With a newfound vigor to see them all, Crowley battled himself to peel away from the comfort of his lounge and make his way to the shower. He successfully resisted the urge to indulge in the relief of the water raining down on him after two weeks of only ego-crippling sponge baths. His family was waiting for him, after all. He styled his hair and changed into his robes for the day, a bit extravagant, but perhaps it would cleanse his soul that had most certainly been tarnished by the hideous hospital gown he’d been subjected to.

There was a bit of a skip in his step as he sauntered to the Great Hall, and his heart started thrumming from excitement as he heard a cacophony of chattering and laughter pouring out the open doors. Never before had he felt this… this _ homesick _, not even during the long summers of research, but he supposed that was just the sort of thing a near-death experience might inspire. 

Only a few moments after he entered through the grand entryway, a complete silence washed over the entire hall, save for the clacking of his snakeskin boots. Those fell into quiet as well as he slowed to a pause, looking around with confusion at the hundreds of eyes all fixed upon him.

“What? Was I not invited?” he asked, an amused grin fixed on his face. 

Crowley didn’t see the face of the first student to throw their arms around him and bury their face into him, as the culprit had attacked from behind. He didn’t see the next several either. Instead, he only witnessed a swarm of students coming at him from every side and clutching on like he would float away if they let go. There were colors of all houses, faces of all ages, and students of different affiliations. While the phantom pains were no longer actively irritating him, they did leave his whole body feeling _ severely _bruised, which would only come back to bite him when pressure was applied to any part of him. This definitely counted as such an event, but presently, he couldn’t find it in him to care about the crippling pain that was shooting through him, causing his muscles to clench and tears to well up behind his glasses. Blast it all, they were welling up anyway. How could they not, when dozens of crying and smiling students were swarming him with relief and adoration? 

“Aaaagh! Enough of that, you lot! Bugger off!” he tried to usher them away to no avail, his voice struggling through the emotion that tightened his throat. 

His attempts to disband the tearful gathering were entirely in vain. Instead, he found the rest of the lunch hour was spent drawing laughter out of sobbing eleven and twelve year olds and wandering around the hall to find separate little cliques that called him over, assuaging their fears and concerns with crafty words and artful grins. Little Warlock Dowling had somehow made it to the front of the crowd without being crushed, voicing his concerns that he’d never see his professor again. “Hey now,” Crowley had said while mussing Warlock’s hair, “Told you you’d find a new family. Told you they’d stick by you forever. Didn’t I? What? No faith in your old Professor Crowley?” With the brightest smile Crowley had ever seen, Warlock’s fears vanished into thin air. At some point he managed a glance over to his self-designated spot at the staff’s table and found his three friends there looking on fondly, laughing and discussing the scene with each other. Crowley realized he probably wouldn’t be making it over there this lunch hour, but his companions hardly looked like they expected him to. By the time he reached the Hufflepuff table and Adhya Bakshi got a hold of him, he could have sworn he was going to pop from how tight her hold on him was. 

“Nngh! Kid- agh! Kid, you’re g- yo- gonna k- gon- gonna kill me!” 

“Sorry,” she laughed through her tears as she pulled away, wiping the wet residue from her face, “Just was so worried, ‘s all.” 

“Woahhhh, Bakshi’s capable of crying? Guess the rumors are true, she’s human after all,” Fawley teased with a smarmy grin from his seat not too far away. Blishwick swatted at his shoulder with a disapproving frown fixed on her face. 

“Yeah? Keep runnin’ your mouth, Fawley,” Bakshi growled, curling her fingers into a fist and holding them up to him, “And it’ll run into something that’ll shut it right up.” 

Fawley pouted, not amused by the warning at all. “You’re really gonna threaten me in front of Professor Crowley?” 

“Aw, he doesn’t mind, do you, Mum?” the Quidditch Captain asked with a roguish smirk. Crowley rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but grin back, yanking the hood of her robes up and over her eyes. 

“Watch it, Kid. Big game’s only a couple weeks out. Would hate to bench you for it. Speaking of which, sorted it out with Flitwick, and he’s letting us use the field during Ravenclaw practice times. Rally the troops and warn them I best not hear any whining over the crunch.” 

“You mean-,” a massive smile crept over Adhya’s face, and her raised cheeks so high they summoned wrinkles next to her eyes, “You’re gonna coach us this week?”

“‘Course I am!” he scoffed, “You think I’m gonna let us lose to Professor Device and those Gryffindors? They’ve got it too bloody easy this year, ought to knock ‘em off their high horse and straight onto their arses, don’t you think?” 

He was rewarded with a bone-crushing hug, and wasn’t released from it until he let out a squeak of, “Anyone else see that bright light?” 

* * *

Valencia Heller’s meeting with Gabriel Goodbody went about as well as anyone possibly could have expected a snarky person with the mentality of an 18 year old meeting a smug, self-righteous prick to go. The encounter was short, perhaps not even making it to a full two minutes, but Crowley was sure that withholding laughter during those several seconds was the hardest thing he’d ever been tasked with in his life. 

The pair sat in on the next period or so of Defense Against the Dark Arts- well, more accurately, they heckled their way through it, much to Gabriel’s amassing frustration and the students’ great amusement. The second class period had barely gotten off the ground, the topic being the tongue-tying curse, before Valencia offered a, “Care for me to help demonstrate? I’d be happy to cast it on you as an example, Professor. Sure the students would be keen on that, too.” 

The room erupted into snickers, almost all masked by a respective hand over the face of every contributor. 

Gabriel gave Valencia a look that would surely cause fruit to shrivel up and die right on the branch before forcing his token smile, “Perhaps you’d best go start working on your own lesson plans, Professor Heller?” 

“Aw, blimey. One day back at school and I’m already being kicked out of class. The memories,” she sighed with a fond note in her voice, drawing forth more giggles. 

“Crawly, would you mind escorting our guest out?” 

“Oh, so you’re the type of prick that deadnames someone just because you don’t like them. Got it,” Valencia mused with her cheek propped up on an elbow, making no indication of movement.

“That’s us going,” Crowley rushed out, hoisting Valencia up by her arm and holding up a hand to declare a truce as he dragged her out of the room, feeling cold purple eyes watch them all the while. 

“Shit,” he laughed once they were in the safe confines of the hallway, “Forgot what a mouth you have on you.” 

“What? You scared of that prat?” 

“Not- not _ scared. _Just- ugh. Remind me to give you the whole song and dance, sometime.” 

Valencia trailed behind him, and when he turned to raise an eyebrow at her, he found a grin on her face.

“Are you- are you_ clocking my arse?” _ he asked incredulously.

“When did you start walking like that?” 

“Walking like what?” 

The witch laughed, shaking her head and giving a sporting grin, “Wow, you really don’t know? You’re so much more confident. Like a different person, almost.” 

“Well,” Crowley hesitated, scratching his nose and shrugging before stuffing the majority of his fingers into his pockets, “Somewhere in the last twenty years, I just figured you’d want me to toughen up. Quit taking shit. Anyway, I hate to say it, but Fuckbody’s right, you ought to start putting together some lesson plans.” 

Valencia rolled her eyes and pursed her lips to blow a stray strand of dark hair out of her face, “Who needs those?” 

“Uh. You. You do. Absolutely. You don’t h- hhh- an- ha- have any idea where to start with teaching.” 

“Can’t be that hard, can it?” she asked with a cheeky grin, “They’ve got you doing it.” 

“Wow, fuck you,” he laughed, shaking his head, “C’mon. Let’s head to the library. Azira’s great with stuff like that, and he’s almost as much of a natural with Defense Against the Dark Arts as you are. Bet he’d be overjoyed to help.” 

He rolled his eyes when describing his boyfriend’s altruism. Never would he fathom understanding Azira’s great love of filling his head with every possible topic that literature had to offer, no matter how trivial. No, Crowley was quite content sticking to Herbology and its necessary cousins, thank you very much. After a moment, he realized Valencia wasn’t following any more. As he turned back to fix his face on her expression, he found her gazing standoffishly out the window.

“Nah, that’s alright. Think I’ll spend the rest of the day reacquainting myself with the castle and grounds. Maybe pay a visit to Hagrid. Lots to take in, you know?”

Crowley frowned, and he felt the bubbles trickling to the surface as his heart sank to the very bottom of his chest. She’d been doing this. Every time Azira or Anathema would show up, she’d leave. It was like she had a deadset aversion to spending time in their company. Typically, Crowley wouldn’t mind that she didn’t care for a certain person’s company. But it wasn’t just a person; it was people. His people. 

“Yeah,” he humored her, shrugging and trying to act casual, “But y’know, if you change your mind-” 

“Can’t say I actually remember where the library is,” she teased, “never spent much time there, but I can always ask for directions if I get lost. Chao, Flaquito.”

She held up two fingers as she retreated down the hallway, leaving Crowley standing there alone, listening to her footsteps for as long as he could hear them. Part of him wanted to go after her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t put his whole life on hold. This was the way of things, and he had to help her get used to it, not coddle her into ignorance. Besides, he and Azira had this whole new thing before them, fresh and unexplored. He’d be damned if he was kept from diving right in.

That reminder sent his heartbeat hammering away as if he felt the Angel’s light washing away his sins right this very moment. With the adrenaline that came with it, he raced off down the hallway and told his burning lungs that they could fuck off right to Hell if they thought they could stop him. He slowed outside the entrance of the library to catch his breath, a smile growing on his face as he spotted the familiar list of rules firmly adhered to the door. 

If he’d felt like it was a return to where he belonged when he’d been in his chambers, he wasn’t sure what on earth the powerful feeling was that hit him upon walking through the library doors. He slowed, marveling at how even with the scantest traces of sunlight coming down from the skies, they always managed to find their way through the archive’s windows. Yellow eyes flicked immediately to the back of a familiar head of white-blonde curls. Azira sat at a large table, surrounded by sixth years of varying houses. One of his study groups, Crowley was sure. Just like him to jump right back into the swing of things.

“Oy, you lot!” 

Several different voices offering variations of, “Welcome back, Professor Crowley!” rang out from the group, and one would be hard pressed to find a single face among them that wasn’t beaming upon setting their sights on him. But he wasn’t looking for a single one of them, save for the one belonging to the same owner of those beautiful blue eyes. Azira attempted a scrutinizing glance above his reading glasses, but an obvious smile played at the corner of his lips. 

“Professor Crowley, you wouldn’t happen to be here to provide a _ distraction _to our dear students’ studies?” 

“Why not?” Crowley hummed in turn. He took the liberty to flip a chair backwards and helped himself to a seat at the table, folding his arms over the back of the chair. He winced as it pressed right up against his chest, dodging the concerned glance Azira threw at him, and leaned back just a couple inches. A jerk of his chin referenced Harley Elms, “Poor Elms over here looks like he’s begging for one.” 

The Gryffindor made a sheepish expression as Azira turned to him, aghast and slightly wounded.

“Sorry, Professor. It’s just- difficult not to get a bit distracted, y’know? I feel like I’ve been running in circles with this stuff,” he admitted, shoulders nearly drawn up to his ears.

“Maybe if you paid attention in class when it was explained to us the _ first time, _you wouldn’t have to make poor Professor Fell repeat what the rest of us already know!” Willow Jones admonished from across the table, looking down her nose at him. 

Elms frowned, bristling in his seat, “Don’t remember anyone asking for the opinion of a stuck-up-”

“Now, now, children, we will treat each other with _ respect _ here, remember? Anyone who can’t abide by that rule will have to find a different supplement for their studies. Now that means no _ name calling,” _he looked pointedly at the Gryffindor before shifting the stern look to the Ravenclaw, “and certainly no smart remarks on a student’s grasp of a topic. Lastly, no rabble-rousing purely for the sake of mischief.” 

Crowley was currently examining a chip in his nail polish, and only at the prolonged silence turned his head to find the disapproving look his angel was throwing at him. 

“Who, me?” he asked innocently. His delayed realization drew forth a chorus of quiet snickers from the table. “What makes you think I’m here to cause trouble? Could have something of a contribution.” 

“Our Herbology professor has a contribution to the subject of arithmancy?” Azira asked, doubt cast both in his voice and the unamused eyebrow that raised with the question. Another round of giggles. 

“Uh- yeah, sure. Why not?” 

“Oh good!” the blonde said, clasping his hands together. Sometimes, the only way to do away with Crowley was to entertain his shenanigans. He sat back in his chair, taking off his reading glasses and folding them into his hand, “By all means, my dear. Share your pearls of wisdom.” 

The students threw subtle glances at one another, jerking their heads towards their shamelessly flirting professors as if to ask, ‘are you seeing this?’ Jones cast about a harsh look in a futile attempt to shut the speculation down, finding it entirely unfounded in her own ignorance. 

“Oh-,” Crowley started, caught off guard. Of course Azira would challenge him to prove it. Welp, time to reawaken his finely tuned bullshiting production mechanism, “Read a book not too long ago about Curse-Breakers using arithmancy to evaluate the probability of success in certain methods before using the time and resources to test them.” 

Azira’s cynical gaze didn’t waver, remaining locked onto Crowley. As always, he seemed to gaze straight through that smoked glass and into the strange golden eyes that lay behind them. 

“Very intriguing. And?” 

“And… wonder how Longbottom’s doing in the greenhouses, I’ll let you lot get to it. Cause lots of trouble.”

Crowley slapped the table as he stood and flipped the chair back around, another bout of laughter sounded from a table. This time, Azira Fell’s was among them. 

“Mind how you go, Dearest,” he called after him, “And don’t think we won’t have a talk about you absconding!” 

Crowley didn’t turn around, but grinned as he took his leave, waving his long fingers into the air as confirmation that he did, indeed, register the promise. Looked forward to it, even. 

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent analyzing every single specimen being cultivated within the confines of Crowley’s greenhouses. Of course, his bentley was given a careful inspection, too. Could never be too wary, he figured. When everything was in order, Crowley sat in on Neville’s instruction. Perhaps he couldn’t take part in any heavy lifting or manual labor, but at the very least, he could smack down hecklers and keep the rowdier students in line. His old friend was so gentle, so soft with both the plants and the students. Crowley didn’t know how he got a thing done, though he knew from experience that he _ did _. Out of all his colleagues and all their accomplishments, Anthony didn’t respect a single one of them as much as Neville Longbottom. It had nothing to do with their personal relationship; Crowley knew damn well how to compartmentalize. No, it was because Neville was the most tenacious, industrious, passionate Herbologist he’d ever met. 

After the class of the day, both Neville and Crowley saw the students off and took a walk-about, clearing the stations. Any time Crowley attempted to break the rules set by the Healers for his recovery, Neville would be fast at his side, chasing him off all too sweetly with an overeager, “I’ve got it, don’t worry!”, even when he clearly did not have matters in hand. Crowley would simply smile. Times like these brought back so many memories of their years working together. When all appeared to be tended to, the pair sat down at a workbench in the middle of the empty greenhouse. The sky had cleared a little, and a bit of sunshine came down through the glass to reward them.

“Was that- I mean, did I do okay?” 

“More than okay. You vying for my job, Longbottom?” 

A squiggly smile appeared on the man’s mouth, and he looked down at the table bashfully before looking back up, giving Crowley a look that was more genuine and caring than it had any right to be. 

“I’m… I’m so glad that you’re alright, Anthony. After hearing what you went through… I was scared you’d end up like…” 

He didn’t need to finish the sentence, Crowley was well aware of what he was alluding to. Neville lowered his head, swallowing hard and furrowing his brows. He shook his head, as if it would do anything to dissuade the building tears from falling. Without a moment’s hesitation, Anthony brought his hand up on top of the table they were sitting at together, squeezing Neville’s arm. The romantic love between them may have been long gone, but Crowley would be damned if he traded the inestimable position this man had served in his life for anything. 

“Didn’t I tell you ages ago? Takes more than a broken engagement to get rid of me.” 

“But more than Death Eaters? More than all their hatred?” Neville asked, voice so low and quaking it hardly made it out. 

“You say that like you haven’t survived- no- stood _ against _ the same. One of the bravest people I know, you” Crowley grinned. Neville swallowed again, face twitching into an obligatory smile he didn’t really feel as he kept his eyes low and nodded. A time passed, and Crowley gazed over again at the students’ work before looking back at a face that was completely absorbed in thought. “What’s that face for?” 

“Oh I- don’t want to bother you about it…” 

Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered as he rolled his eyes, and he released a snort alongside a deadpan stare in response. Neville knew better than to feel he must beat around the bush with the wild, unpredictable man before him. His worried glance broke into a smile, as if admission of his own silliness. 

“I heard a rumor that Valencia was… well…” 

All at once, Crowley wanted to smack himself in the forehead. How thoughtless could he possibly be? Why hadn’t he written Neville the moment he got the news? Absolutely no one in their entire field had been as eager to help, as faithful, and as supportive as he was. The redhead’s heart fluttered. He’d dreamed- _ fantasized _about relaying this very news to his close friend. A smile worked up on his face, though it was too emotional to be as debonair as he intended. 

“Nev… the rumors are true. The potion’s gone on to testing now. Soon, you’re going to get to talk to your Mum and Dad. Properly.” 

Neville gave him a desperate, longing look for so long that it dissolved into a falling apart of sorts. His hand slapped over his mouth, and he fought back an emotional sob into his palm. Crowley smiled and shook his head, as if dispelling any need for the withholding of well-earned emotions. He wrapped his arms around his friend’s shaking shoulders, pulling him close against his chest and resting his red head against the brunette’s. 

“I’m just sorry it took so long,” he mumbled, low and sure. A deep inhale of air swirled into his lungs, and he closed his eyes, listening to Neville cry into his shoulder. He hadn’t held him in ages. It wasn’t the same. Of course it wasn’t. They belonged to different people now. But it didn’t feel wrong. It was warranted- if not overdue. 

“Don’t apologize. Not to me. Tony. I’m so proud of you. You’ve done it! Knew you would,” Neville laughed through all the emotion.

“Please,” Crowley sharply laughed, pulling away and ducking his head to look into Neville’s face, hands clasped firmly on his shoulders, “You think I could’ve gotten here without you? This is your victory, too. Our victory.” 

The pair went to supper together, cramming another chair onto the end of the table to dine together in celebration without disturbing anyone else’s seating placements. Valencia did not make an appearance, but Crowley still felt somehow whole, sitting amongst his dear friends. Even as he was chastised by Azira and Anathema for sneaking out of the hospital, he couldn’t help but simply smile through it, glad that they had at least reached a place in his recovery where they stopped treating him like a fragile little thing that would break at the slightest scolding. 

“Really? You expected me to behave like an ‘upstanding, moral citizen’?” he asked in a mock upright voice, grasping to hold at proper gentlemen’s lapels that didn’t exist at his chest. 

“Never,” Anathema heaved a sigh, rolling her eyes with great dramatics before sipping at her plum wine, “Just hoped Hell would give you a few days off-duty.” 

After dinner, Anathema and Crowley meandered arm-in-arm after Azira to the library, instinctively going straight into his office and finding their self-assigned places there before cracking open a bottle of wine and falling into some comfortable chatter. Azira attempted to excuse himself, reminding them that there was still quite a bit of work to be attended to, and that most students didn’t manage to make it to the library until this time of night. 

“Always so diligent, you,” Crowley chided all too softly, offering up an indulgently salacious grin, “Can’t I tempt you to just one glass of wine and some good conversation with even better company?” 

“Hmm, as proficient as you are in tempting, Dearest, I’d much prefer you get some rest in bed while I finish my work. You’re welcome to use mine.” 

“Well,” the Herbologist started, “I’d hate to disappoint our dear Anathema after so long away. Besides, I would have hoped your first attempt to get me into your bed would be a bit more _ exciting _ in nature, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, you _ are _a wicked demon,” Azira chided with a blush upon his cheeks, but he only managed a moment of disapproval before ceding to that devilish grin. He grasped his lover’s sharp chin in hand before leaning down to bestow a kiss upon those ever-tempting lips, pulling back to offer the softest smile the world had ever seen, “Be good, you.” 

“We’ll see what happens,” Crowley bantered back noncommittally, smirking at Azira’s tut of discontent before the blonde turned to disappear back into the archives he so caringly monitored. Upon realigning his attention to Anathema, Crowley’s heart shriveled and turned black, withering away and drifting deep into the confines of his chest. She looked more furious than he had ever seen her. Her nails dug deeply into the chair she sat upon. Her eyes were wide and unrelenting, one of them twitching as they bore into the very depths of his soul.

“D- duh- da- dare I ask?” he managed out, swallowing hard and sinking into his seat.

“You fucking snake-” she growled through bare teeth, stopping herself to close her brown eyes and inhale deeply before shaking her head thoroughly and giving a smile that made his skin _ crawl. _Her fingers steepled in front of her chest, elbows perched on either armrest.

“You and Azira are together, hmmmm?” she asked in a sugar-sweet voice, giggling in a way that made him feel quite like she would tear the head off a doll, if handed one, “How long now?” 

“Uh-uhhh tha- um- it- ‘s- be- uh-,” he stammered stupidly, feeling a sweat work up on his forehead, “‘s only been a couple weeks. Confessed to him when I thought we were done for, ya see?” 

He desperately hoped the explanation would placate his friend. Instead, her eyebrows quirked, and she gave a maniacal grin, “Two weeks, then? Wonderful. Two weeks and you couldn’t be bothered to tell me? The person? Who’s been your dedicated wingman? For two _ fucking _years?” 

“Ohshit,” Crowley rushed out in one fell swoop, sinking further into his chair, “Anathema- fuck- I didn’t think-”

“You didn’t!” she laughed, “You never do, do you? Never thought for one second anyone else was just as deeply invested?” 

Crowley remained quiet a great while before working up a sheepish grin, hoping it was just charming enough to keep her from stabbing him in the neck as it appeared she was so inclined to do, “You were- damn right. And how could I ever thank you?” 

She paused for long enough he knew he was permitted to continue, life and throat in tact, “you’ve tried just as bloody hard as I had. Turned out, in the end, I just needed to put it all out there, fears and all. Guess it motivated him to entertain me, given it was upon my dying breath and all.” 

The scene he set seemed to be effective enough, as finally, some sympathy betrayed itself in her gaze. She sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment and channeling the negative energy away from herself, along with the tension it had bestowed.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, that you two suffered such an awful thing. We haven’t had the chance to talk about it. How are you dealing with it?” 

The sorrow there was genuine. Damn, he should have played this card when he first recognized the ferocity on her features. She was nearly as soft as Azira. Of course concern would always beat anger. Every time. 

“Better, with him at my side. I am sorry, you know. You’ve been- this whole time, I’ve been able to talk to you about it. Even before he came back into my life. I got so swept up in it all- I just, can’t believe it’s real, you know? I can’t believe he- do you think he regrets it? Wishes he could take it back?” 

Brown eyes that were harsher than the most icy winter storms only a moment ago turned soft and warm, and Anathema smiled, “No. I think he’s felt the same way for a long time now. He admitted as much to me, you know.” 

“He did?” Crowley asked breathlessly.

“He did,” she laughed in turn, too fond of his hopeless yearning to remain angry at him any longer. Clearly, he was still coming to terms with this, himself. No wonder he hadn’t the mind to declare it to the world. He remained afraid it would all slip from his fingers. “He just needed that extra little push.” 

“Never thought I’d be grateful for a bit of torture and having flirted with Death,” the redhead mused. 

The next hour or so was spent with Crowley venting all the gushing over his beau that he’d restrained for weeks thus far. It did not fall upon unwilling ears. Anathema looked on with stars in her eyes, soaking in every detail and venturing as far as to weep when he recalled the story of their confession, through all its minced details. Despite Crowley’s eagerness to discuss, he was just as keen to bristle and blush, mumbling an embarrassed, “shut it,” every time Anathema would fawn over his softness. Eventually she called it a night, remorsefully recalling that she had quite a bit of work to be done in preparation for the next day’s classes. Between her best friend’s absence and Azira’s nightly visits to the hospital, she’d gotten into the bad habit of leaving all lesson planning for the night before. 

After her retreat, Crowley took to following after Azira, constantly questioning if he was done with work for the night. The answer was the same, an increasingly aggrieved, “Not yet, Dearest.” His angel even managed to coax him into a nap for a while. While not typically inclined to fall for temptations, himself, Crowley had to begrudgingly admit the day had worn him to mere shreds of the man he’d been this morning. It wasn’t until roughly 10 PM, long after the students had gone to bed, that Crowley stumbled sleep-drunkenly into his office and asked a final time. 

“Yes, my darling,” Azira sighed, “What could possibly be in such urgent need of my attention?” 

“Me,” Crowley sighed, breathlessly, and took his lover’s face in his calloused hands with the utmost tenderness. At last, he kissed him, the way they had only kissed that one day in the hospital. The way Azira hadn’t allowed him to ever since. This time, there was no objection. No excuse about his healing. No redirection to other matters to be tended to. This time, he fell into Azira, and Azira caught him. Hopeless hearts beat against one another in tandem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of chit-chat and slice-of-life this chapter, I know! I probably should have cut some of it out but... I was too self-indulgent ;o; I love expanding on Crowley's relationships with his friends and students. 
> 
> Another big thank you to my lovely and supportive friend @outbreakfile for beta reading this chapter!~
> 
> Choo choo! What's that sound? The Sex Express! All aboard! Next stop: Smut Station


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley finally get to live out their fantasies, but given their vastly different experiences, there's quite a bit that needs to be discussed in the way of expectation for both their sex life and their relationship. Crowley has difficulty finding the right words, so Azira gives him a hands-on lesson in communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! CW !!!  
This chapter contains a fair deal of smut! Azira and Crowley have an important discussion that I will summarize in the end notes for those of you who don't wish to read through the intimate bits.

Crowley could not be described as inexperienced in matters of carnal indulgence, not by any means. He’d taken more partners than he can count. In run-down hotels and in club coat closets, in strangers’ homes and in dirty bathrooms. He’d been taken in every imaginable way while presenting with any variety of efforts and identifying as any gender. He’d sought out such encounters when at his lowest. He’d seek the warmth of another body so for one brief moment, he might feel wanted. Always, he was abandoned or kicked out after, alone and forgotten mere moments later. Then, he’d seek out another just to forget about the pitiful act of desperation that shamed him from the last act. It was a brutal cycle. One he was sure he deserved to suffer in. Some nights he was kept awake, still feeling all those hands on him, holding him down, suffocating him, reminding him of the only thing he was good for. 

But this- this was something different entirely. As he pressed his mouth against Azira’s, as he circled his tongue with his own like a serpent circling its prey, squeezing and prodding, it was like a confession. As Azira sighed into it, rewarding Crowley by sucking his lower lip into his mouth, worrying at it while sounding a raspy moan that set Crowley’s heart alight, he felt absolved of all transgressions. As one soft hand slid beneath the edge of his shirt, brushing against the tender skin at his hip, and the other’s thumb caressed his collarbone before sliding up to cup the side of his slender neck, it left a searing trail of hot passion and love, burning away the filthy fingerprints like holy water cleansing the sin off his very flesh.

Crowley guided Azira clumsily towards the sofa, the both of them stumbling before clambering back on it. The redhead landed on his lover’s lap, pausing to gasp hard at the agony slamming against his muscles like a hippogriff kicking him in the sternum at the hard collision. Fuck. In the heat of the moment, he’d entirely forgotten that his body was currently in a constant state of feeling like it had been brutally beaten. But Heaven and all its angels couldn’t keep him from his. Not now. Not when he finally had him here in his arms, pinned to the furniture beneath him. Someone had been looking out for him, as his face had been buried in Azira’s neck when it had twisted from the sharp pain. 

The small miracle did nothing to keep Azira from noticing the sudden tenseness shooting through his limbs.

“Are you alright?” he asked urgently, pulling his hand back out from beneath Crowley’s shirt (much to the pure-blood’s dismay) and reaching to hold his sharp jaw in hand. 

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley hummed, his voice raspy and low with lust as he pressed their noses together and brushed his lips against Azira’s, “How could you even wonder? I could die and go to heaven and it wouldn’t hold a candle to this.”

He was pleased that the gentle hold on his face allowed a clear view of Azira’s, for the reaction to his voice alone was too rich to possibly pass up. The blonde’s face turned pink, and he took an unsteady gasp as a shutter rattled up his spine, lips parting and eyelids lowering as he looked on at the figure in his lap with a gaze that was only reserved for the finest desserts in the world. A gaze that said, ‘I want to devour you, and when I’m done, I’ll lick the plate clean’.

Crowley gave an absolutely wicked grin, growing entirely dazed and dizzy from the scene. He adjusted his position, straddling the older wizard before diving back in without a trace of reservation. It was his turn now. He used that miraculous tongue of his to draw Azira back in, teasing and tasting the wine and and chocolate that he must have been indulging on his palate. His hands wandered in the meantime, resting on Azira’s chest and rubbing soothing circles into it with his fingertips. They may have been rough, scarred, and calloused from years of taming thorny and poisonous plants, but more importantly, they were skilled, precise- _ practiced. _He pushed his palms upwards, briefly massaging those broad, surprisingly sturdy shoulders and drawing pretty little sighs from Azira as he did so. 

Their lips parted for the shortest moment so they could catch their breaths. 

_ Don’t cough, you pathetic piece of shit, don’t you fucking ruin this for us, _Crowley internally hissed at himself. It took all his concentration to keep his lungs from gasping for air as raggedly and loudly as they needed to. His chest ached, and was trembling the slightest bit. 

“You wiley serpent!” Azira accused as he panted for air, only now realizing that his robe had been pushed right off his shoulders, his bowtie had been undone, and the top two buttons of his shirt had been unfastened. He attempted to fix Crowley with mock disapproval, but the overall smitten look cemented into his features ruined it. 

“Who? Me?” asked the offender, a salacious, toothy grin on his face. He wound one hand through the back of that curly hair, his fingertips tingling with adrenaline as he realized this was the very first time he was recreationally touching the white-blonde halo that had called to him for twenty-five years, now. “What are you gonna do about it, Angel? Smite me?” 

He tightened his hold on the hair and gently pulled back, leaning forward to gaze domineeringly down into his sweet angel’s face. The plan didn’t progress quite that far, as what he found there instead was a cheeky bastard grin that made his very bones turn to jelly and his face turn what Azira thought to be quite a pretty shade of pink. The librarian’s hands had ventured to his hips- Crowley had no idea when- and with the same ease as he might toss a book on a desk, he used one swift movement to draw them forward and bring their chests flush against each other. 

“Ffff-fuck!” Crowley hissed, relieved yet again that an exclamation of pain could be passed for one of surprise. That never in a million years would have hurt him if he was back in peak condition, but now, the hard- no, it couldn’t even be labeled as that- _ firm _grip of fingers on his hips had sent an electric shock in all directions, causing his stomach muscles to spasm and send out another subsequent wave of torment. Blast it all. What was he made of? Fucking china? Didn’t matter. Pain could sod off or stick around to watch. He would walk through Hellfire barefoot if it meant having the convex of Azira’s body fitting the concave of his own so bloody perfectly. If it meant having that blessed breath sighing into his ear. 

“I just might, except you’d enjoy it too much, wouldn’t you? I’ve caught onto your little _ temptations _, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered and his whole body shuttered. He’d only heard a command like that in Azira’s voice and seen that calm eye of the storm in his gaze a handful of times. Most memorably, when he’d vanquished Gabriel into the very depths of humiliation. Crowley remembered so desperately wishing for the same- and it seemed he was getting it. The most embarrassing whine was ripped from him at the sound and sight of it alone. He would have wished for death to claim him for it, would have thought Azira would judge him for such a pathetic noise, except for the fact that he was rewarded by strong hands pressing up his back (hard, too hard, but fuck that). One hand scratched roughly in between his shoulders as the other twisted in his hair to tilt his head as Azira hummed, “Oh my, I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Azira nibbled at his earlobe before sucking it into his mouth, massaging it with his tongue, and Crowley shivered, melting into the body beneath him like butter. Pain and pleasure were raging a brutal war within him, but the latter won this round, as a shameless, broken moan was ripped from his lungs. The painful grip on him loosened, and this time it was Azira to fall to bits, forehead falling to Crowley’s shoulder. Suddenly, the figure on his lap became astutely aware of a growing hardness between them, and likened in kind. A lewd, adoring smile came to his lips, and he nuzzled his nose into those heavenly curls. They smelled amazing, like lavender and sandalwood. 

“You like vocal partners, Angel?” 

Said angel pulled back, a bit of sobriety and awareness returning to his eyes even through the obvious lust that addled them. Past that- adoration and tenderness in immeasurable force. Crowley had never seen the skies in his eyes like this before. It was like… golden hour, washing him over with a sensation of fulfilment and awe. One soft, broad hand found his rough, spindly one, and Azira lifted it to place a tender kiss to the dark scales that were reappearing on his inner wrist, sending a shiver streaking through him. The other sunk down to cradle the curve in the small of his back. All at once, the Herbologist wanted to cry, and subsequently, wanted to kick himself. Azira loved him back, even with all his hideous malformations and imperfections- he still couldn’t wrap his head around it. This wasn’t some random fuck. This was personal. This was tender. This was precious. 

“Oh, no, Dearest. It’s _ your _vocals that do this to me, oh if you only knew how…” 

“I have some idea,” Crowley teased, bringing his free hand to Azira’s shoulder and attempting to use that support coupled with power sourced from his legs to roll his lithe body against this soft, perfect one from chest to pelvis. 

Big mistake. Apparently ‘no heavy lifting’ included his own body weight, too. Stabbing torment wracked down from his shoulder and up from his thighs, sending his muscles into a painful spasm yet again. This one, he was unable to swallow, leaning forward and releasing an undignified “Ghhh!” of hurt into Azira’s shoulder. This one, there was no passing off. Azira had felt the spasm himself. 

With great alarm, the Muggle-born pulled back, taking Crowley’s upper arms in hand like glass and guiding him backward so he might perform a panicked search into his face.

“You’re in _ pain,” _he practically whimpered the realization, alarm clear in his features. 

Panic bloomed in Crowley as well, for an entirely different reason. If Azira was worried enough about this bloody nonsense, he realized, he would call off all activity for who knew how long. Oh no. No, no, no. Over Crowley’s dead body. The thought alone was devastating. He’d waited so long for this. All he wanted was to make Azira happy. Make him feel good. Show him how much he fucking adored him. 

He passively swatted Azira’s hands away, grinning and shaking his head before diving back in, trailing a line of kisses up his jaw, and blowing playfully into his ear, “Nothing to worry your pretty blonde head about. Some people go wild for some pain with their play. Don’t mind a bit of it, meself.” 

“Crowley,” Azira started. Oh bugger. Crowley knew that voice. The worried, fussy, lecturing voice that he could practically hear the wizard’s frown in. “I would hardly compare pain from a traumatic near-death experience to a bit of spanking or flogging.”

“Ngk!” Crowley choked out, suddenly sporting a fascinating shade of red. In his wildest fantasies, he had never expected Azira to talk so casually about such things. Could his pure innocent angel possibly be experienced with it? Would he entertain bringing it into _ their _sex life? A little thrill shot through Crowley’s head and groin at the very thought of it. The room was spinning all of a sudden and his heart pounding with a vengeance. He ducked his head to place heated kisses along Azira’s collar bone, nipping at the flesh there before drawing a long lick of his serpentine tongue up the sensitive line of his neck. Azira shuttered, which the Herbologist counted down as a victory, but he was suddenly much more stoic and defiant than before. 

“Relax,” Crowley hummed against him, “You’re too worried. Have been all this time. I can help with that. Make you forget, for a while. My poor, pretty Angel. Taking such good care of me, but who’s been taking care of you?” 

He tried to roll his hips against Azira’s again- more gently this time, although his stomach muscles still gave a stabbing ache of protest, but pretty soon, those firm hands had returned to the sharp hip bones. Not to tease or grab at them this time, much to Crowley’s dismay, but to hold them still. Azira was stiffer than ever, and not in the right places. 

“Have you always done this?” he asked, worry ringing as loud and clear as a church bell in his tone. 

“Done what, love?” 

“Kept quiet when you’re hurt or uncomfortable during intimacy?” 

“Done so through much worse than a bit of cramping, I’ll tell you that. Besides, what can I say?” Crowley sighed dreamily between playful nipping and sucking at Azira’s pulse, sliding a hand down between them to finally rub at the bulge in those beige trousers the way he’d only _ fantasized _about, “I’m a giver.” 

Azira felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the stomach. His heart stopped beating, and he might have heard it crack. All at once, a debilitating wave of nausea washed over him. He needed a moment. He needed to be still or he’d be sick. But he didn’t have a moment. He had a beautiful, wonderful, and apparently deeply abused person in his lap who seemed to have a disturbingly twisted understanding of what was expected here. Instinctively, Azira snapped back, snatching Crowley’s wrists to pull his hands off his body and tearing up in horror over the disgusting, toxic sentiment that had just come out of his mouth. 

“Anthony, _ stop,” _he snapped, with such an urgency in his voice that Crowley flinched. Pupils that had previously been as wide as a fat, happy cat’s basking in the sunshine narrowed into slivers of black, and terror flashed across his face, now devoid of all color. Before Azira knew what was happening, the figure was five feet away from him, hands fisted into his hair, and on the verge of hyperventilating. 

“Azira fuck- fuck I’m so sorry. I’m a f- fff- fucking- Oh, Go- S- SSS- Sat- sss- somebody, there are no w- n- no- no words for what I am. I thought you wanted- wanted-” 

_ Me. _

“I’ll- I’ll go? I’ll go. Fuck.” 

“Woah!” Azira rushed out, having to vault over the sofa to beat Crowley to the door and block him from it, “You’ve misunderstood! Crowley, please. Look at me- look at me.” 

He cradled that sharp face so tenderly in his hands, noticing the poor man’s trembling. His face was twisted in absolute self-loathing, eyes squeezed tightly shut as tears ran down his face. 

“Anthony,” Azira whispered softly, swiping a tear away with his thumb and pulling that red head of hair forward so their foreheads bumped softly together. Crowley let him, loose as a ragdoll as he took shaky, strained breaths through his nose. “Please, my love. Give me your eyes. I want to help you understand. You haven’t done anything unwelcome. I don’t want you thinking you have.” 

Slowly, long lashes fluttered a few times as Crowley blinked his eyes open, turning those tearful golden eyes up to Azira’s, reminding him of shooting stars falling from the heavens. 

“I haven’t?” he asked, a desperate, pleading quality in his voice. 

“You haven’t,” Azira reassured, giving him a comforting smile that always seemed to make Crowley smile back. It didn’t this time, but he wouldn’t let it discourage him. 

“And, you ridiculous man,” he added, “I do want this. I do want you. I _ have _wanted you. You haven’t an idea for how long.” 

“You have?” Crowley sighed, worrying at his lower lip and giving Azira such a longing, hopeless, love-sick glance that the angel felt it ache in his own heart. 

“Of course.” 

“Then… why...?” he asked, not sure how to finish the question. 

“It wasn’t what you did, darling. It’s what you said. And didn’t say.” 

Those golden eyes were entirely lost now, as if they couldn’t quite sort which way was up. He gave a weak, pitiful grin, raising his shoulders slightly.

“You know me, Angel. Always s- shi- ssay- saying shit without thinking. Stupid like that.” 

“No- no, see that’s exactly what I don’t want. I won’t have you putting yourself down.” 

Confusion was stamped onto Crowley’s face like ink on parchment. Azira smiled softly, exhaling quickly through his nose in exasperation as he realized a different approach was necessary. He took a handful of his lover’s long fingers, gently guiding him back to the couch and gesturing for him to sit down next to him. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he sat back on the sofa, looking down thoughtfully to turn over Crowley’s hand in his own pair and tracing the little scars there. When he looked up at the waiting wizard, he had to stifle a laugh, as Crowley very much likened an untrusting cat, suspicious that its owner was about to dunk it into a tub full of water. 

“Whatever is that face for?” 

“Are you gonna dump me?” 

“What? No! Have you been listening to me at all?” Azira asked, aghast at the audacity of the accusation. 

“Yeah, I- just- sorry,” Crowley finished stupidly, “You want to talk though.” 

“Well, yes, before we go any further...,” Azira started, hesitation dragging out the seven simple words. He pressed his palm against Crowley’s in his lap, winding their fingers together and cupping the back of his hand with his other. 

“Got tested a month or so ago, if that’s what you’re worried about. Clean as a whistle.” 

With an incredulous expression, Azira shook his head. Only Crowley could somehow surmise _ that _was the important topic they needed to discuss. “That’s- I wasn’t- I suppose I’m glad to hear it. But no. Not what I had In mind. I want us to establish some ground rules for our overall relationship. Because I love you and I want more than anything for this to last.”

“I can do that,” his partner rushed eagerly, “I’d do anything for you.”

Azira gave an exhausted smile. He would have pointed out that Crowley hadn’t even heard what he had to say yet, but what would it possibly change? He’d found the rarest thing in the entire world- a person who loved him unconditionally. A person who would defy time and space itself for him. At that thought, he raised the hand wrapped in his own pair, kissing the back of his thumb. He felt the wizard relax the slightest bit at his side. That was good. This wasn’t meant to be an interrogation. 

“If this is going to work, Crowley… we need to communicate. Properly. No more lying. No more secrets. I know how hard that is for you, and I’m not saying you must make up some ridiculous list composed of every single fact I don’t know about you. But… if, in the future, you were to tell me when something comes up and torments you, it would mean everything to me. Isn’t that such a magical thing about being together? That we might not have to suffer alone any longer?” 

Crowley looked very much like a deer caught in headlights. He averted his glance for a time, until Azira took the liberty of gently grasping his cheek, pulling his attention back. 

“If you’re afraid of being honest with me, surely that’s due to my own short-comings? I must be doing something wrong…” 

“N- nn- no!” Crowley rushed out, cursing under his breath as he grasped his head with his free hand and shook it as if to rid it of stupidity. He sighed, looking back at Azira. “Look I- fuck, this is embarrassing-”

“Dear boy, we exchanged deathbed confessions, don’t you think we’re a bit past that?”

Azira smiled as Anthony barked a laugh and quirked an eyebrow, nodding in consideration and cocking a finger gun his way. 

“You’ve got me there, Fell. It’s just- I’m- I’m over the moon that we’re together. You have no idea. I thought it was bad when I looked at you- _ thought about _you before. Thought there was no way I could love you any more than I already did. But now, knowing that you love me too. It makes me feel like my heart’s going to burst out of my chest. All I care about is making you happy. I’m so scared of saying the wrong thing. Of fucking it up. Losing you. Losing this. I know that’s stupid, when it’s barely started. I just spent so long dreaming of getting you, I never considered losing you.” 

“Oh, Anthony,” Azira gave a spellbound sigh, relinquishing his hold on the cold hand to take the pure-blood’s face and kiss him absolutely silly before pulling their lips apart and bumping their noses gently together, “The only conceivable way you could push me away is by- by _ keeping _me away. I want to share the burden. I want to love you the best way I can. I want you to trust that I’ll love you no matter what you’ve been through. I want to use that knowledge to stand with you against whatever comes. Won’t you let me know you?” 

_ Fuck, Angel, _Crowley thought, growing dizzy again, but this time from the rush of blood his heart was pumping through his veins so swiftly and powerfully. It was as if Azira had unlocked the gates that were his ribcage, opened them up without any indication of resistance, carefully plucked his heart out of his chest like a broken-winged baby bird that had fallen from its perch, and taken upon himself to nurse it back to health, regardless of how long took or how much love and attention it would require. 

“Yeah,” he managed at last with an absolutely besotted gaze and a tender smile, this time taking his own turn in kissing Azira- on his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, finally setting on his lips, “I can’t promise I won’t be shit at it or that you won’t have to remind me or that I won’t act like it’s the end of the world. But I promise I’ll do my best. Like I said, I’d do anything for you.” 

Azira beamed, looking on at his lover with fond, teary eyes as he cooed, “Oh, Crowley! My sweet darling!” 

Crowley whined comically as Azira pulled him to his chest and buried his face into his hair, cuddling him like he was a teddy bear. 

“Oyyyy! Thought I set the record straight on that one!” 

“Oh yes, big tough spicy devil, and all that,” Azira dismissed with a laugh. 

“Can we get on with it then,” Crowley pouted against Azira’s chest. 

“Yes!” the angel chirped, as if the redhead had asked for them to continue a game of wizard’s chess, “Well- no. It depends. You realize our discussion applies to what happens in the bedroom, too? Perhaps communication is most crucial there.” 

Crowley froze in the arms wrapped around him, relieved the blonde wasn’t currently glancing at his face so he could scrunch it up and quirk an eyebrow, wondering what the hell he was referring to. Crowley could be quite the talker. Had a mouth on him that would spew the filthiest sentiments during sex. He thought they’d had a nice bit of repartee going before things went south. Then again, apparently it was him running his mouth that caused the trouble to begin with. The librarian huffed at the silence, pulling back to look at him as if he could read his mind, “I’m referring to you hiding the fact that you were in _ physical pain. _I know you’re not used to your past partners caring. But I do. I love you, in fact. I don’t think I could even manage to be aroused if I had to fret that you were hiding pain or discomfort.” 

The animagus gave a confused sneer, fixing Azira with a long look before shaking his head and exhaling an amazed little laugh through his nose. 

“Where’d you come from?” 

“London,” Azira mused, “but according to your methodology, I suppose I originated in Heaven. Gosh, that’s awfully blasphemous to jest about.”

“Oh, you goody goody Christian boy, always so fussed. Can’t be blasphemy if it’s true,” Crowley teased, wrapping his arms around Azira’s waist and stealing yet another kiss.

The librarian couldn’t help but allow the Herbologist to pull a bit of a laugh out of him, despite his attempt to pout. He pushed some stray strands out of that handsome face, figuring they must have fallen loose during their earlier rowdiness. 

“So, you’ll tell me if something we do causes any pain or discomfort? No more nonsense about you ‘putting up with it’?” 

Crowley groaned, flopping dramatically back against the sofa with a wince and sprawling out, his legs draped over Azira’s, “Angel, every inch of me feels more bruised than a bloody rotten peach. It’ll take ages to get anywhere.” 

“What’s your point, dear boy?” 

Golden eyes blinked in surprise before red brows furrowed above them, certain Azira simply wasn’t picking up what he was putting down. The Herbologist snorted, “m-me point- _ me point is _, if you’re so Hellbent on playing nice, it’s gonna take ages to get you off.” 

“My goodness, and here I was, unaware that there was an important appointment you needed to tend to,” Azira teased with a smarmy grin, ghosting a fingernail up and down the inside of one of the thin, tightly denim-clad thighs that rested in his lap. 

A pink hue blessed Crowley’s face beneath his freckles. The tickling sensation made him instinctively want to snap his legs shut, instead, he adjusted his knee out farther, offering an invitation, of sorts. 

“Y’mean,” he mumbled in quiet disbelief, “You don’t mind? I mean, really. None o’ that ‘It’s an inconvenience but I’ll stay quiet about it to be polite’ shit you do.” 

It was Azira’s turn to scoff, and he rolled those bright blue eyes Crowley was so taken with, raising his brows in amusement and pursing his lips, “What? You think I’m going to get bored in the middle of fucking you? I’d gladly take all night even if I didn’t get anything out of it at all. Those beautiful moans of yours would be quite enough reward, for me. ” 

“Hrnnhgh!” Crowley said, covering his now tomato-red face and swearing that his soul had left his body for a moment there. Azira’s eyes immediately fixed on Crowley’s re-invigorated length and grinned. Really? The devilish, worldly Anthony J. Crowley with all his mischief and scary yelling just needed to hear a naughty word out of his angel’s mouth to get a hard on? An overwhelming urge to tease him for it became present, but luckily, Azira was feeling merciful tonight and figured perhaps that would be the wrong note to start their first night of intimacy on. 

He rested his head against the back of the furniture, running all five fingers up and down Crowley’s thigh now as he held his right hip with a featherlight touch. Minding the pressure, he teased the sharp angle of his hipbone with a gentle thumb, feeling the smoothness of scales that had resurfaced there and mentally cataloguing it away for future reference when the figure before him shivered and squirmed. 

“So, we’ll go as slow as we need to go, and you can tell me what it is you want.” 

Finding a window of opportunity and eager to take the situation in hand for familiarity’s sake, Crowley sat up, ignoring the defiant burst of pain in his abdomen at his doing so without any support from his arms. He pressed his hands against either side of Azira’s chest, giving an indulgent grope as he pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him again. He laid atop him, gently sliding his fingers under his waistcoat and over his shirt to feel the softness of that stomach he’d always yearned to touch.

“You know what I want?” he cooed into Azira’s ear before licking around the shell of it and nipping his earlobe, “I want to suck you off for as long as you can take it. This tongue can do some awfully unique things, you know. Then, right when you’re ready to fall to pieces, I’m going to put a ring on that beautiful cock of yours- well, I assume it is, always imagined as much, _ fuck _I can’t wait to see it- and then I’m going to ride it- or fuck you, whichever you prefer- make you feel like you’ve never felt before. Like you’re shaking to pieces. Like the pleasure’s going to just consume you whole. And when you’re right there at the tippy top, begging me to let you come- I’ll give it to you. Because I’ll give you anything you want, in whatever way you want it. And I’ll give it to you better than anyone else ever has and ever could. I guarantee it, Angel.” 

His own amassing problem was rubbing sinfully against Azira’s now equally prominent one, and the blonde shuttered beneath him. Much to his surprise, the hands that snuck beneath his shirt were soft and gentle as they glided up his side, drawing a shaky exhale from him in turn. Azira pressed his nose into Crowley’s cheek, inhaling a deep, recollecting breath before stamping a kiss there. 

“That’s very nice, Dearest, but I believe I was referring to what you’d like for me to do for you.” 

Crowley pulled back, confusion smacked onto his features in a layer so thick Azira nearly burst out laughing. Instead, he managed to keep it at a wavering grin and a bit of a snicker in his throat. It was a difficult task to throw Anthony J. Crowley off guard, but it appeared he’d managed it. The librarian was able to ride the wave of amusement for a while as golden eyes flicked between him, his heaving chest, and the straining erection in his trousers, it was almost as if he could hear the voice inside that red head of hair marveling, ‘I know I did it right’ as he tried to put the pieces together. He appeared completely and utterly stumped. 

Azira wasn’t thick. He was very aware of Crowley decades-long suffering in his struggle with self-loathing, and ventured to guess it kept his darling from feeling he was deserving of attention. Ever the crafty redirector, the attempt at seduction was as transparent as glass. As was the fact that Anthony _ wanted _attention. Longed for it. And Azira was going to give it to him. At last, Azira took a bit of mercy, and gently guided Crowley upright, following after him. 

“Well?” he asked, indicating perhaps it was time for his beloved to let it go and change gears. 

Crowley’s eyes continued to flicker between Azira’s face and the room, but now it looked a little closer to panic mixed in with the confusion. The smile that had been wavering on Azira’s mouth faltered, and he gently grasped the back of Anthony’s neck to summon his attention, fingers gently stroking the short hairs at the base of his skull. 

“What’s the matter, Crowley?” 

“I- I don’t… I don’t know-....,” he trailed off, and when those beautiful familiar eyes that held a whole galaxy inside locked onto vast blue skies, Azira wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Crowley look so lost. 

He didn’t know what? Surely, he knew the options? He was wildly experienced, more people than Azira would have liked were aware of that. 

“You don’t know… what you want?” Azira took a guess at the end of the question. Even if he didn’t understand it, that didn’t mean it wasn’t what Crowley meant by it. The animagus’s complexion darkened yet again, but this time he brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and looking away with a frustrated expression. The poor Herbologist looked on the verge of screaming. The blonde sighed through his nose, drawing his hand a little closer to rub his thumb against the space in front of his ear as he gently coaxed, “there’s no wrong answer, Crowley. I’m madly in love with you. I want to show you how very much. I want to be good to you.”

Uncertain, desperately loving eyes looked on at that, and eyebrows quirked upwards just slightly where they drew together, tapering into a downward slope as they went outward. A gentle clearing of a throat sounded before a hesitant voice, “I meant what I said before. About being a giver. I m- mmm- mean, if something’s given, I’ll accept it, even if I don’t want it, ‘cause… it means they want it, I guess. But other than that I don’t know-... I don’t know how to ask or what to ask for. I don’t know what I want.” 

The initial feeling to wash over Azira was outrage. Outrage directed at every single person that had ever had Crowley. Outrage at any one of them that didn’t have the bloody awareness to notice if they were causing him upset or pain. Didn’t they know how lucky they were? Didn’t they know what a special, beautiful creature they’d been blessed with? They should have been kissing Crowley’s fucking feet. Begging to bring him whatever pleasure he fancied. Maybe they hadn’t loved him- but why not? Azira wanted to know one person on this earth more deserving of love- more _ lovable _than Crowley. 

Then he looked at his face, and saw that panic return. Oh dear- he thought the anger was directed at him. That simply wouldn’t do. Crowley was opening up to him, exhibiting such moving vulnerability. He had to prove he was deserving of that trust. 

Azira wrapped him up in his arms, drawing him near. “To say I’d love to be the one to help you discover those answers would be a horrendous understatement, I’m afraid. We’ll begin with the basics. You can keep me informed as we go along.” 

Crowley looked hesitant, regaining that lost look about him. 

Azira weighed the options before releasing the figure curled in his arms, standing to his feet and reaching his hand out, “Come on, Dearest.” Crowley was one for action, not words, and _ hated _discussing his insecurities at such great length. Perhaps he’d respond to a more ‘hands on’ learning experience. 

A brow was cocked at the outstretched hand, but fingers sporting black nail polish took it anyway. 

“Where are we going?”

“To do this properly,” Azira reassured with a warm smile. He felt a bit of his own worry wash away when Crowley flashed a toothy grin upon being led into Azira’s chambers. As they neared the bed, he was pulled close to the broader figure and into slow, sweet, pulsing kisses. 

“Now,” the Muggle-born began after managing to tear himself away, grinning as Crowley tried to chase his lips and pouted at his failure, “Lets get you out of those clothes, and then you can be a dear and lie down on your stomach for me?” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shot upwards, and he slapped his hand to the place above his heart while pivoting back with one foot in a comically over-theatrical display of being taken aback, “Hell’s bells, Angel! If this is going slow, I am _ ecstatic _to see what fast is!” 

Azira huffed and rolled his eyes, still ceding a grin at the taller wizard’s giddy laughter.

“Of course your mind would run off to the filthiest corners. No, my dear. I thought we might kick things off the ground with a bit of a… a communication practice.”

“Ah yes,” Crowley droned while obediently sliding out of his outer robe, sarcasm dripping from his voice, “my favorite form of foreplay.” 

The slightly shorter of the two sucked his teeth, reaching back to pinch Crowley’s arse and gaining a devilish grin in response. “You _ will _like it you know. You really ought to learn to be less cynical.” 

The Herbologist marveled at how the librarian could fuss at him while simultaneously indulging so shamelessly in watching him undress. Ever the hedonist. Fuck, he didn’t even try to hide biting his lip as Crowley pulled his shirt over his head- not that the slender figure was making any attempt to be modest or quick about it. That was just Azira though. Having his cake and eating it too- and oh, wouldn’t a slice of pie just be perfect, as well?

It wouldn’t do not to tease him, the wicked man decided. He kicked off his shoes and undid his tight jeans, only managing to yank them down to his mid thigh before sitting on the edge of the bed and vaguely dangling his legs in Azira’s direction, “Mind giving a h- hhh- ha- hand? Or are you keen on just watching me struggle?” 

“There’s something to be said for enjoying a pretty view,” was the rebuttal, drawing a grin to the struggling figure’s lips. Still, the librarian had mercy, drawing the too-tight ankles of the trousers over Crowley’s heels. After that, they gave way easily enough. “The rest is up to your discretion,” he hummed, running his hands yet again over those lean sides, brushing gently over his chest, and offering a smug bastard grin that made Crowley flush upon playfully pinching at a nipple. The act allowed him to witness Crowley’s cock twitch in his light-blue boxer-briefs, accompanied by a soft little sigh. 

“Pants off, socks on. Toes get cold,” Crowley bit back with a mischievous grin. Azira lifted his chin at a diagonal and quirked his eyebrows, as if amused at the challenge. Still, he had to be glad Crowley seemed to be feeling a bit more comfortable, already.

“These are certainly outside your usual color scheme,” Azira hummed while hooking one thumb around the fabric of the hip and wrapping the other arm around Crowley. 

“Wore them just for you. Thought they matched your eyes,” the redhead had the chance to mutter into his ear as he was aided in lifting up so Azira could slide the pants down his thighs. 

This was so different than he imagined. Of course, he never assumed Azira to be inexperienced, he knew he’d had at least a few long-term, intimate relationships, but he was always so fussy, so easily flustered in nature. Crowley’s fantasies always involved Azira being blushing and submissive, melting at his fingertips and falling victim to his temptations. But here he was, sliding down to the floor as he removed the last bit of clothing and flinging it to the side as he drank in the image of the tall redheaded vision spread out above him, nude for everything save his mid-calf burgundy socks, and actually had the gall to _ lick his lips _ at what he found. 

“My dear,” Azira hummed with a low, raspy voice, drawing a line with his fingers from Crowley’s ankles, up his calves, his thighs, and hips, raising with them until he was arching over the naked figure waiting on the bed. He leaned forward, pressing only the single gentlest kiss Crowley had ever received against that place in his neck where his pulse was rocketing, “I don’t believe a more beautiful creature has ever walked the earth.” 

“Oh…,” Crowley sighed, every hair on his body standing on end, every nerve ending coming alight and burning, creating a sensation that washed over him in the most unimaginably powerful waves of sheer need. He was hungry for Azira’s touch. _ Starved. _ What was wrong with him? This wasn’t his first fucking rodeo. He was shocked at his own reaction. Azira smiled so sweetly, looked at him with so much love as he stepped back and got to work neatly rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, otherwise completely dressed save for his robe, undone bowtie, and the unfastened top two buttons of his dress shirt. Crowley felt so vulnerable in front of him. He’d never felt shame before for being the only naked person in the room, and yet he was flushed down to his neck, biting his lip and growing hazy-minded just from the contrast in their levels of dress, a bead of precum dripping down onto his thigh. This wasn’t shame either. No. Azira didn’t just look at him now. He _ saw _him. Always did. Like no one else in the world. 

And suddenly this Azira made so much more sense than what he’d seen in his fantasies. Azira, so devoted to making him feel loved. Azira, seeing so many wonderful qualities in Crowley and longing for Crowley to see them too. Azira, ever cool and collected when Crowley was in a tizzy. Azira, always knowing exactly what Crowley needed, even when Crowley didn’t, and unconditionally giving it to him. 

Sod his fantasies. This was better. This was _ real. _

“Belly down for me, Dearest? Do make yourself as comfortable as you can. I want you to be able to relax.” 

Again, that steady, sure voice made him shiver. It wasn’t anything like the people who had bossed him around in bed before. It wasn’t under threat of punishment. It wasn’t even an order, really. He had a choice, of course he did. It was still his same soft, loving angel. He was leading with calm and confidence. Crowley was following with unwavering faith. He nodded, feeling dizzy as he crawled up the bed, flopping down on his stomach and wrestling a pillow in his arms before he found a comfortable position, half his face buried into the soft surface. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, finding the same smell of Azira that had lulled him to sleep only a few hours earlier. He opened his eyes curiously when he heard the familiar voice muttering a heating charm, having not the slightest idea of what to expect. The mattress shifted, and he felt Azira’s weight settle nearby, their hips pressed together as the other sat beside him. 

“I’m just going to massage your back now, alright? I’d like for you to tell me if any particular action feels good, if it doesn’t, if you’d like me to do something differently, and most _ certainly _if you’d like me to stop altogether. Can you do that for me?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled into the pillow. He’d been ranting about needing a proper fucking massage for years. He had no idea why he was all nerves now, about it. 

The mystery of the heating spell was solved when warm lotion was slowly spread across his upper back and shoulders. Azira started by gently running his hands over the expanse of his back, allowing him to grow familiar with the sensation. They left a crackling heat in their path, his skin heaven incarnate on Crowley’s body. He transitioned seamlessly into something new, lightly pressing the heels of his palms into Crowley’s shoulder blades and sliding them upwards before shifting the pressure to his thumbs and pressing the tension there outwards. The muscles, tensed in anxiety only a moment prior, relaxed now. Azira’s fingertips melted away any tightness Crowley was holding in them. 

“There we are,” Azira said approvingly, feeling the shift beneath his fingers and watching Crowley’s grip on the pillow loosen.

“Mmmfeelsgood,” he hummed in response. Of course it was an understatement. He’d never been touched by Azira like this- only dreamt of it. Already, he found himself hopelessly addicted.

“Oh, excellent!” 

Crowley nearly rolled his eyes at the enthusiasm in Azira’s voice, but the words of affirmation left a little buzz of warmth in his stomach that felt far too lovely to take for granted. As he turned to complete goo under these new ministrations, he wasn’t sure what fingers Azira was using anymore, but sighed out a “That’s nice,” as the liberty was taken to pulsate smaller circles down to work out the knots between his spine and shoulder blades. Time seemed to flutter by, and Crowley found himself truly surrendering to the delightful sensations as Azira’s words proved true- he wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by taking his time. Digits pulsated down either side of his spine, reminding Crowley of fingers playing on a piano. He hissed as they got to his lower back. 

“Hurts there,” he mumbled. 

“Shall I leave it be?” he was offered.

“Nah- just, really gentle, if you don’t mind. It’s been killing me, feels like it’s gonna snap.” 

“Of course, love. We can’t have that.” 

“Oh, _ fuck, _Az, bloody perfect,” Crowley moaned, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes rolled back. Azira had his fingers all centered on his lower back, gradually spreading them all apart, gliding them down and back around, repeating the pattern in slow rounds. Crowley sighed and hummed over it for an indulgent amount of time before remembering the ache lower down. 

“Wouldn’t mind some palm action down by my hips,” he mumbled, adjusting the pillow beneath him before nuzzling back into it, eyes closed while he focused on relaxing. 

“Just lovely, darling,” Azira hummed, praising Crowley’s willingness to ask and watching a light blush touch the face below him.

Attentive hands responded accordingly, gently lowering to press the heels of his palms in slow patterns around at the lowest part possible of his torso on either side. It was like every single action, every new pattern in every new place was undoing him. Every knot untied slipped him further into Azira’s hands, trusting the angel to do whatever he fancied with what was left. His head felt light, pleasantly buzzing, and he was sure now that he was harder than ever.

“Bit harder?” Crowley asked, letting out a deep moan when Azira complied, “You sure I can’t suck you off after this?” 

That beautiful laugh rang out, a bit raspier than usual, if Crowley wasn’t mistaken. 

“Don’t you worry about me,” Azira reassured, lowering a hand to grab an indulgent handful of one of the cheeks there, “You wouldn’t believe the view.” 

“Always happy to please,” Crowley mused after sounding a short gasp, a grin on his face, a thrill in his stomach, and a fluttering skip in his heartbeat. 

Azira’s hands shifted, lightly following the visible dips of Crowley’s ribs.

“Aaagh!” the slender figure exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his skin. Azira quickly pressed down on his shoulder blades to steady him. 

“I’m so sorry! Have I hurt you?” Azira asked, voice laden with concern. 

“No- no. ‘s not it. I’m… I’m mmmcklphmsh,” he mumbled the last bit into the pillow, slightly hiding his face as he blushed. 

“What’s that, Dearest?” 

Crowley pouted for a moment, picking at a stray string on the pillow case before begrudgingly repeating, “Ticklish.” 

“Oh,” Azira said, and a long pause followed. Crowley wondered at it before finding Azira suddenly leaning over him, laying siege to his cheek with kisses and laughing, “My Lord. I don’t think you could be any more adorable if you tried your hardest!” 

“Wh- I am not _ ‘adorable’ _!” Crowley whined indignantly, just imagining the smug look on Azira’s face. 

A finger ran experimentally down his spine, dusted with red and black scales, and the loudest moan yet was ripped from Crowley. He curled the fist closest to his face, pressing it against his lips. A gentle hand grasped the fingers, pulling them away.

“Oh please, my darling, don’t deprive me of those lovely noises of yours.” 

“M’neck is sensitive, y’know. Been dreadfully stiff lately,” Crowley panted, still so unsure how to handle praise and compliments that encompassed anything other than his appearance, as thrilling as they were. 

He wasn’t sure if he should thank or curse himself as those soft, incredibly strong hands came up to the back and sides of his neck, but all that came out was a string of sighs and moans. The implication itself was enough to burn him alive from the inside out. But then those warm, lotioned fingers were rubbing away at every bit of tension, summoning every bit of warmth to the surface. Those were _ Azira’s _fingers. He remembered. Because Azira loved him. They hadn’t even touched, not in a sexual way, and yet he found himself more aroused, more dizzy with lust than he’d ever been. The pressure at his hip reminded him that he was under the ministrations of the love of his fucking life. 

His hips gave a helpless roll against the bed, and his hand desperately flew down and back, searching for Azira and grabbing his knee. 

“Azira! Please! Please, I want to touch you, I’m begging you!” 

“Oh, Anthony,” Azira sighed, and the way he sighed his name- his _ first _name- was enough to make Crowley’s hips snap forward yet again. He was helped to roll onto his back. And what he saw rendered him breathless. No clothing had been removed. Nothing had been changed at all really. Yet Azira looked wrecked in the most intoxicating way. His pupils were dilated wide with interest. His lower lip was red and swollen (and oh so inviting) from abuse. He was flushed with arousal. But above all else- Crowley was positive, in that moment, that no one had ever looked at him with so much desire or that much love in his entire life. He felt absolutely faint from the blood that rushed downwards. Vaguely, he saw Azira reach forward to touch his face, and felt the soft fingers caress his cheek. More prominently, he saw stars. “Don’t you know? You never need to beg me for anything.” 

Azira crawled over him, minding not to bear down any weight, and leaned down to kiss Crowley, helped along by an eager hand yanking him forward by his shirt. The kiss was hot and passionate, something messier and needier than it had been before. 

“What do you want?” Azira sighed between kisses. 

“Kiss my neck,” Crowley begged, feeling a bit stupid asking like this. As soon as those lips met the sensitive flesh, kissing up it before nipping and sucking at the sensitive place under his jaw, his reservations about inquiring were out the window. Perhaps asking wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He let out a shameless moan, hands raising to greedily grab at and unbutton Azira’s waistcoat and shirt. “Mark me up, Angel. I want everyone to know.” 

Coy lips grinned against his throat, experimentally kissing to find the most sensitive point of the slender neck and finding purchase as a sweet kiss to the place where it met his shoulder had Crowley arching up into him. His hands drifted over Crowley’s torso so gently, and he smiled at the feeling of his stomach muscles fluttering beneath his fingertips. “To know what, Dearest?” 

“That I’m yours! Az, please!” 

Azira kissed so gently before lightly biting down on the sensitive muscle, sucking with a vengeance. Long fingers grasped at his shoulders, and he earned a string of sighs and moans set out before him like a buffet of the finest delicacies. He summoned blood to the surface, leaning back to admire his work before kissing the freshly made mark and indulging himself to leave a few more trailing down to the hollow of Crowley’s throat. 

“Oh fuck, _ fuck _ I’m going mad, Angel. Get these bloody clothes off before I tear them off for you!” Crowley growled. 

A low laugh sounded in response, and Azira raised up on his knees, sliding the shirt and waistcoat from his shoulders and beginning to fold them before his partner snatched them and threw them to the side. Although he wanted to be offended, and took a moment to give Crowley a suck of his teeth and shake his head, he couldn’t help but grin soon after as Crowley scooted back to sit up and eagerly snatch at his belt, undoing the clasp. The belt was soon snapped out of his belt loops and thrown haphazardly off the bed, and those skilled fingers now worked at the closure of his trousers. Crowley’s serpentine tongue flicked out to lick his lips. Azira yanked his vest off and tossed it to the side, minor disbelief washing over him as the beautiful tempter below him bit his lip and flushed at the sight of his bare torso, snakelike pupils dilating with pure desire. He looked absolutely starved. Long fingers raised to run over that soft stomach Crowley had dreamed of for what felt like forever now, trailing lower to stroke over the blonde fuzz leading downward from between his hips and disappearing into his pants. 

A bit of maneuvering was required as Azira moved away from Crowley, needing to stand to properly divest himself of his trousers and pants. Personally, he preferred his socks off when taking a tumble, and took a moment to tug them off his feet. Turned away from his partner, he took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He always hated this part. Hated the inevitable disappointment on his partner’s face upon seeing his body. By no means was he ‘thin’. Under no standards could he find himself attractive at all. It had never given him this much anxiety before. But then again, he’d never had someone as stunning as _ Crowley, _before. As he turned around, he couldn’t help but be overcome with surprise. Never in the whole of his acquaintance with Crowley had he seen a mixture of such undeniable smittenness and lust on his face. 

“Satan help me, you’re so fucking gorgeous. Are you just going to stand there? Every second I’m not touching you is _ torture.” _

They somewhat collided as Azira came back to the bed, Anthony leaning up to meet him. It was all a dizzy, desperate blur of tongues and teeth and hands and moans. Slender fingers searched and groped Azira’s body like it was an oasis and Crowley had been a man lost and stranded in the desert. He ran his hands over the soft roll of that adorable belly, sliding a hand up to pinch a nipple. An attempt was made to lean up further to bite greedily at the soft flesh padding that tempting throat, but a short groan and the spasming of Crowley’s stomach had Azira pressing him back down to the bed with a stern look. He straddled those sultry hips again, leaning down to kiss the corner of Crowley’s mouth and circle a thumb around a nipple. 

“Shall I pay some attention to these? They’re so darling, so wonderfully sensitive.” 

Again, a pretty shade of pink crept up Crowley’s neck and onto his face, but he nodded shortly, gasping and digging his fingers deep into white-blonde curls as Azira lowered to lap liberally at one of the nipples, blowing a cool stream of air onto the pert, pink flesh to watch it harden. He was rewarded with a passionate cry, and a writhing of the body below him that dragged Crowley’s leaking erection up against his stomach. He couldn’t help but grin as he took the nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, using just the scantest trace of teeth, and reveling in the feeling of Crowley desperately rutting against him. The other hand pinched and played with the unattended bud. He left a few more marks across his chest, minding to leave space between the gash across it, almost just a scar, now. 

“May I touch you, Dearest? You’re so hard; is this all for me?” 

“Ghh! Yyy-yes!” Crowley shuttered, disoriented and wild from Azira’s ministrations and how he said such sexy things in such a collected, _ sweet _way, “All for you. All yours!” 

“You spoil me, darling,” Azira cooed, leaning back to appreciate the twitching, flushing length beneath him, the head of it shining with precum and leaking it onto his stomach. He licked his lips and pressed his thumb against the sensitive tip, smearing the liquid around before giving it a slow stroke down to its base. Crowley released the prettiest, most liberal noises yet, clutching at Azira’s broad shoulders. The blonde established a slow pumping rhythm, only occasionally twisting the slightest bit near the head on the upstroke; he didn’t want Crowley quitting on him too soon. 

“Oh, Crowley. How lucky am I? You’re such a pretty thing. Look at you. Positively debauched. Such a sweet, good boy.” 

“Shhh- shut it! N- nn- not sweet! Not good!” Crowley managed to pout despite the obvious shiver that had worked up his spine, not ceasing the lazy rocking of his hips into the amazing sensation of Azira’s soft, firm hand. 

His angel gave an impish grin, rising yet again to lean down over him domineeringly, place his forearm beside his head, and cage him in. 

“I didn’t realize we were still playing this game.”

“Mmm- wh- what game?” Crowley questioned, unsure why Azira was looking at him that way and feeling shaken down to his core by it in the most intoxicating way. That look said so much that frightened Crowley. So much that thrilled him. It said ‘I see you. No point hiding. I see it all.’

“The one where we overlook your little praise kink.”

Crowley couldn’t retain his whimper as he sputtered out, _ “P-praise kink? _” 

Azira gave a soft laugh, leaning back to place a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and smile at him oh so sweetly. 

“Oh, yes. You ‘hate’ praise, I know. Sneer at every little compliment. But do you know what I believe? I believe that it’s an act. I believe that you _love _it. I remember it so vividly. That night in London I rescued you and brought you home with me. I rained down the truth- all the things I love about you- and it _excited _you, didn’t it? Did you think I wouldn’t notice you rubbing your thighs together under that scanty little dress? How words alone had you shivering and panting? Tell me, my darling, how wet were you?” 

“I- Ah- I d- du -dunnnn- dunno what yo- you’re on about!” the redhead whimpered, voice wavering as it betrayed he was hanging on by a thread. Azira had only ever seen him so flushed and embarrassed in one other instance: on the very night he referenced. 

“Alright, then. We’ll keep playing a while longer. But only because tonight is about what you ask for out loud,” he hummed before leaning down further and rasping out into his ear, “And not what you’re _ begging _for, silently.” 

“Azira! Shhhi- _ fuck me, _ple- please! I want to feel that fat cock inside me!” 

The blonde shuttered above him and gave a low moan, his own cock giving a start from where it hung in the air, dripping precum down onto Crowley’s belly. 

“Oh, Anthony, I would absolutely love to,” he cooed. 

Crowley wondered how he did it, his own head swimming with heat and lust. How did he say his name now and make it sound so fucking different than any time before? How did he stay so level while falling apart? How did he remain so loving and soft while simultaneously being so fucking dominating and sexy? He had time to ponder as Azira’s presence disappeared above him to shuffle through a drawer, another heating charm muttered, but by the time he returned, no answers had been found other than the simple fact that it was Azira. Everything about him amazed Crowley. No reason for that to stop now. 

Crowley bit his lip, taking up the stroking of his abandoned hardness as he watched Azira liberally squeeze lube onto his fingers. 

“You can just go right in, if you want, Angel. Don’t need to fuss over prepping if you don’t want to. L- looo- look how hard you are, your hot fucking prick hasn’t gotten any attention at all. ‘S not fair,” he tempted. 

Azira tutted, shaking his head while spreading Crowley’s thighs apart with the back of his hand. He leaned forward to see that gorgeous face better, not wanting to miss a single expression. He found this to be a wonderful decision as he lowered his hand to tease around Crowley’s entrance, sure to apply a generous amount of lube. “My dear, when have you known me to be complacent in putting anything but my best effort into anything? If I’m going to get to fuck you, I’m going to do it properly.” 

A finger was pressed in, and Crowley writhed at the intrusion, inhaling sharply and shivering at the filthy language that had come out of his lover’s mouth. 

“Deep breaths, love. There you are,” Azira hummed, gently stroking up and down the outside of Crowley’s thigh with his free hand. He wriggled the finger around, allowing the tight heat to adjust to its presence. When Crowley relaxed a little, he slowly began pumping it in and out, trying not to think too hard about the blessed sensation he would be rewarded with when sliding home into those sweet confines. 

“Where else do you like to be touched?” 

The pure-blood writhed beneath him, turning his head away in a bit of embarrassment- Azira could identify it from a mile away, at this point. 

“Oh come now, Love. I want to see you come undone. Won’t you give me more of those pretty noises? Just a hint on how to get you there?” 

“N-naval. Hips,” Crowley mumbled out between his gasps and sighs, looking positively caught beneath the mischievous grin his lover pinned him down with. He’d ceased touching himself by now, not wishing to blow it early. He was not going to deprive himself of feeling Azira’s body against him, the expressions that would flash across his face, the noises and words that would tumble out of his mouth, all while he was rutting into him, so insistent about bringing him every bit of pleasure he could. He’d dreamed of having Azira for years now. He’d be damned if he went and fucked it up now. 

Azira slid downward, lathering his tongue into the divit of Crowley’s stomach while pressing his thumb down against the sensitive dip of flesh just within the borders of his hip bones, stroking up and down experimentally. He was rewarded with buckling hips and a high-pitched, needy whine that sounded like it’d been ripped from Crowley’s lungs. Figuring this was serving as a perfectly pleasant distraction, he took the opportunity to slip a second finger inside, slowly working and stretching out the clenching heat. He blew onto the sensitive naval beneath his mouth, smiling as he felt the lean stomach muscles there tremble and his stomach sink lower as Crowley took a sharp, shaking inhale. He dove back in with his tongue, his fingers rubbing little circles along the tender tissue beside his hipbone. A third finger was slipped in, and the tension there was no longer a tightening reaction to pain. Instead, it seemed to be coaxing him to come in further, greedily begging for his presence. Good Lord, even when he wasn’t trying, Crowley was the most tempting creature on earth. 

“Surely you must have some kind of Veela heritage?” he moaned against that blessed, quivering stomach. 

“‘S only twelve percent. Bet it’s a load of rubbish anyway.” 

Azira paused his ministrations on the surface of Crowley’s slender torso, looking up at him with lips ajar and raised eyebrows.

“You’re being serious? That’s fascinating. I suppose it explains a great deal.” He crooked his fingers as he talked, stroking inside Crowley in search of that sweet spot that would surely make him come undone. He lowered his head again, nibbling at the opposite hip before leaving a little pink mark just inside it. 

“Eeeeargh! Don’t you have more _ important _things to focus on than- aAAh! Aha-zira!” Crowley’s growling was interrupted by his own desperate cry. One hand smacked flush to the headboard, pressing against it, the other fluttered down to clench into Azira’s curls. 

“Ah! So there it is.” 

“Yes, yes! Bloody good job, Detective- now would you get on with it and fuck me already?” For words that would seem like they were bossy and demanding, they came out to sound an awful lot like begging. The fingers withdrew, but were not immediately replaced. Instead he received a playful pinch to his thigh, and Azira sucked his teeth at him.

“Now, now, my dear. That’s not a very nice way to ask for what you’d like. Won’t you be good for me?” he scolded but spread crowley’s thighs, regardless, settling between them and lining himself up. 

Crowley whimpered, lifting his legs to make it a bit easier and wanting to cry from sheer need as Azira paused and looked up at him expectantly. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Angel! I’ll be good- just for you! Just- please, please! I need you! I _ want _you!” 

Azira gave him the purest smile he ever had, filled with adoration, sweetness, and undeniable love. He slid into him slowly, allowing Crowley to adjust to his girth inch by inch. Golden eyes rolled up in his head, and he bit his lower lip abusively until a soft thumb gently caressed the soft pad of the swollen flesh, coaxing him to release it. He took in an unsteady gasp as Azira fully sheathed himself, grateful that it seemed he wasn’t the only one to need a moment to adjust. 

“Anthony, Dearest- oh- you feel like _ Heaven,” _Azira moaned the praise, sending goosebumps shooting up over every inch of Crowley’s skin, “Just give the word when you’re ready.” 

Crowly nipped at Azira’s thumb, sucking on it for a moment and fluttering his eyes open to gaze deeply into his partner’s. The redhead looked absolutely ruined as a result of all the affections he’d received, and Azira’s breath hitched in his chest. He was quite sure he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. 

“You’re the one that’s heavensent, with a cock like this. No right to feel this damned good, filling me right up. Now go ahead, eat your heart out,” Crowley moaned with a toothy grin after releasing Azira’s thumb. 

The heavier of the two didn’t need to be told twice. He started slow, familiarizing himself with the feeling of Crowley tight around him and growing dizzy from the heady cocktail of the sensations, the sounds, and that gorgeous view. He meant to keep his pace, but the sounds being ripped from the figure caged beneath him were so intoxicating, so blissfully beautiful that he couldn’t help but quicken it. He leaned down, panting into Crowley’s neck as he fucked into him, trying to remind himself to keep his thrusting gentle no matter how _ badly _he wanted him. Those noises were right in his ear now, encouraging him along. Crowley pressed his heels into the mattress and angled his hips, allowing Azira to rut directly into that hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Azi- raAH- Ah! Ah! Fuck!” Crowley sobbed out. Azira moaned loudly into his neck in turn- a low and guttural noise that made his lover’s cock twitch against his stomach. He sucked and bit the skin beneath his lips in a weak attempt to possibly channel some of the love and obsession that Crowley pumped overflowing out of him. He stroked Crowley’s thighs, feeling them trembling and frowning in concern.

“What do you need, darling?” he asked so sweetly as he panted into Anthony’s ear. 

“Mm- my legs- c-can’t keep the angle mu- lo- much- much longer. Hurts to,” he admitted. 

“Oh dear, well I can certainly help with that,” Azira cooed, leaning back to loop his arms beneath Crowley’s knees so they were hitched above his elbows and lifting them up towards his shoulders, resting his hands on either side of Crowley’s chest and using his thumbs to toy with his nipples. When he continued thrusting in, the new position allowed him to sink in deeper than before, rubbing against that spot that had his lover losing his mind, “Does that hurt?” 

“Nnuh! Aah! Fuck, you’re s-ssso strong!” Crowley rambled, throwing his head back. 

“How do you like it, my dear? Shall I continue like this?” he asked, referring to his steady pulse in and out.

“Or this?” His hips adapted a faster, shallower rhythm that had Crowley’s chest heaving and his arms thrown above his head to steady himself against the headboard, as if it would stop the room from spinning. 

“Or perhaps…?” Azira snapped all the way in, dragging sinfully against the bundle of nerves on his slow retreat until only an inch was left in, and then he snapped back, filling him completely to repeat the pattern. 

“Ye- Yes! Ah! That! That! Don’t you dare fucking stop! Angel! Angel! You’re a blessed Angel!” Crowley sobbed, removing his hands from the headboard to scramble at Azira’s shoulders, scratching desperately at them with his long black nails.

Azira looked down at his face, so beautiful- so _ perfect _like this. His swollen, red lips were glistening and spread apart to sound those celestial cries. His long eyelashes were fluttering, and beneath them his golden eyes were glazed over with absolute lust, pupils so dilated they nearly eclipsed his whole iris. He had a beautiful flush of arousal spread across his tear-covered cheeks, and his previously meticulous hairstyle was in absolute ruins, red tufts of hair sticking out in every direction. His long neck was on display, and his chest working hard as he gasped for air between cries, all the pale skin there peppered with little pink love marks Azira suddenly wanted to leave more of, everywhere. He quite agreed with Crowley, he wanted people to know this stunning person belonged to him. He wanted them to know he belonged to Crowley, in turn. And the reminder of both those facts really only made this all the more breath-taking. 

He couldn’t imagine he was fairing much better than Crowley. He’d never once in his life felt any kind of pleasure close to this, and struggled to keep his rhythm steady. The pair of them were a heap of trembling, writhing, tangled limbs now. His heart felt so full. He was so close to Crowley. They were together now- truly- in a new, beautiful way, the likes of which Azira had never been with anyone and only cared to ever be with one Anthony J. Crowley. He supposed his darling was making good on his promise- he was giving it to him better than anyone else ever had or ever could. 

“Would you like me to give that beautiful erection of yours some attention?” Azira asked breathlessly, wondering if the words came out in the correct order. His mind was in such a pleasant, muddled haze that wasn’t helped at all as he gazed down at the gorgeous appendage rubbing between their stomachs. 

“N-nno- it’d be too much!” Crowley whined, “Fuck! I’m- oh!- so close! Is this real? P-please tell me it- Ah! It- it’s real?” 

Azira felt the knot low in his belly tighten at Crowley’s sweet, exposing question. He knew the feeling. Having that beautiful slender body beneath him, woven in and out of his limbs. Those pretty moans that only one occasion of hearing had doomed him to countless, relentless fantasies. The face of that person he was so in love with, that he’d collected every single expression from but these ones. It was entirely surreal. Too good to be true. Unbelievable. 

“It’s real,” he moaned and panted, kissing the underside of Crowley’s chin and being rewarded with a hazy gaze from those eyes, blinding with their starshine, “And how- more amazing than any fantasies of you I’ve ever imagined.” 

Those tearful golden eyes went wide and soft. God. Azira loved him so much it hurt. 

“Y-You’ve- ah!- F-fantasized about me?” 

“Oh, _ yes,” _ Azira breathed, feeling dizzy at the dazed, happy grin that came to Crowley’s mouth.

“Oh fuck!” he laughed, scratching up Azira’s shoulders, “I’m- I’m! Ah! Just a little harder! Please! Please!” 

“Gladly.” Azira complied, letting out little cries of his own that mixed with his lovers and reverberated about the room alongside the crude slapping of flesh against flesh. Crowley’s cries grew louder, somehow, and Azira basked in them. It felt like sunlight washing over him on a breezy summer day. 

“Ahh! Oh, Anthony!” he choked out as Crowley pulsed and tightened around him, undoubtedly close. 

“Azi- ah! Ah! Oh I love- love yo- oh!” Crowley sobbed, arching forward and curling into Azira’s body, his own convulsing all over as he came, the sticky fluid splattering over their stomachs. 

The blonde assisted his lover in riding out his orgasm, grinding sinfully against that spot as he did so. When the moans quieted into little gasps, he moved to pull out, but was stopped as one of Crowley’s long hands shifted to the back of his neck, a suggestion that he should remain where he was.

“I love you, too, my beautiful darling, so very much more than I could ever say,” he mumbled, guiding Crowley back down until he relaxed back in his place on the bed. They remained like that, keeping the position for a couple of minutes while Crowley came back down from his cloud, and Azira leaned downward to kiss all over the angular face he was so very fond of, whispering words of what a lovely job he’d done. 

He got a cheeky grin in turn. Even when he was blissed out, the redhead still managed such a perfect, devilish little smile. He reached up to stroke Azira’s cheek. 

“‘M good to go. Keep on, Angel. However hard or fast you want to. You’re close, aren’t you? I want to feel you come inside me.” 

“Ohh,” Azira moaned, growing so dizzy at the suggestion that he had to rest his forehead against his lover’s for a moment. After regathering his bearings, he thrusted in, slowly, until he was sure Crowley had ridden out the initial sharpness of overstimulation and readjusted to the sensation. Then he gradually picked up the pace. 

“Bloody Hell, Az, you fuck me better than anyone ever has. I could do this all night. All day. Every day. Forever. I wish we never had anywhere else to be. Oh, _ fuck, _ just look at you. I want to ride you so bad, look down at you as you make those pretty faces. And you talk about _ my _ noises. I want to bottle yours up, keep them on my nightstand so I can open them up on lonely nights and have them wash over me while I fuck my fingers into myself, wishing it was _ you.” _

“Cr- oh! Oh! Crowley!” Azira panted, quickly becoming overwhelmed from the dirty talk he was being bombarded with. He pressed Crowley’s thighs up and snapped his hips forward so hard that his lover’s naughty words came to an abrupt stop, a whining cry taking their place, and Crowley’s hands flew to brace himself on the headboard yet again. Azira couldn’t help but grin at the fact that he’d managed to shut him up. 

“Oh! Sm-smarmy bast-ah! Bastard!” Crowley cried out as his overly-sensitive prostate was pummeled harder and faster than before due to his lover’s desperate state. 

It didn’t take long for Azira to finish, burying himself to the hilt before filling Crowley up, immediately addicted to the gasping, helpless, grateful expression he earned upon doing so. The height of it was the most powerful climax he'd ever experienced, and stars rocketed in every direction of his vision as he leaned forward over Crowley, moaning into his ear. He remained still for several moments with gentle hands stroking his hair, waiting for the last of his orgasm to pass before pulling out, flopping down next to his darling on the bed. Soon enough, he found an overeager animagus snaking his limbs around him and cuddling up flush to his side. He laughed breathlessly at the needy nuzzling of Crowley’s face into his neck, wrapping one arm around him and gently stroking up and down the thigh thrown over his stomach with the other. 

“You’ve done such a marvelous job telling me what you wanted, Crowley. I’m so proud of you,” he hummed after finally regaining his breath. 

Crowley whined reluctantly into his neck, burying his face down farther, making it safe to assume he was bashful at the praise. He resurfaced after a while for air, resting his head on the pillow next to Azira and fixing him with a head-over-heels, love-sick gaze. 

“Wasn’t fibbin’, y- yo- you know. Best fuck ever. Hands down. No contest.” 

Azira gave a fond smile that reminded Crowley of sunshine, leaning in to kiss him softly before agreeing, “It truly was something remarkable.” 

They reveled for a while in the quiet and each other and post-coital bliss before a shy, overjoyed little smile came over Crowley’s lips. Azira turned to find it and smiled back, wondering what such a cute look was for and giving an inquisitive expression to indicate as much. 

“You said you’ve had fantasies about me,” Crowley explained in a playful, sing-song voice. 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Well?” Crowley asked, cuddling closer and resting his head on Azira’s shoulder, looking up at him with wide, excited eyes, “Don’t keep me in the dark.” 

“Which one do you want to know?” Azira asked, finding himself malleable when under such a precious gaze. 

“When’d it start? I’ve been trying to get you hot and bothered for _ ages. _Nothing fucking worked. At least, I didn’t think so.” 

“Oh,” the blonde answered softly, a light blush taking over his features that earned an all too enthusiastic, toothy grin. He sighed, how could he say no to that? “You remember when you, Anathema, and I went to London- the time we stayed out far too late and drank far too much?” 

“I do. Fun times,” Crowley confirmed with a strong element of curiosity in his voice. He began lightly drawing patterns over Azira’s chest. 

“Well, when we staggered home to the bookshop, you had your head in my lap, and I was stroking your hair and you started... _ moaning,” _he said, suddenly finding the ceiling to be of remarkable interest. His heart picked up pace from simply remembering the scene he described and the feelings that went with it, “It drove me mad. I meant what I said about what your noises do to me; I don’t think anything else has ever gotten me worked into such a state. So I excused myself and- and... you know… took care of it.” 

Crowley’s grin grew wider and more mischievous than ever. He rolled over onto Azira, folding his arms over his chest and resting his chin on them to look down at that lovely, round face, “I’m all ears. What’d you think of?” 

“Oh- well…,” Azira trailed off, staying quiet for a few moments as he smoothed one hand over his lover’s back, the other stroking his hair. One glance down at Crowley’s overly-enthusiastic expression told him that he wouldn’t let it drop. He sighed, “Well. I imagined you pushing me down into my office chair and sliding down to your knees and- erm-” 

“Blowing you?” Crowley asked, looking impossibly cheeky over the whole ordeal. 

“At first,” Azira admitted, “and then I got my hand in your hair- you see, I’ve always quite fancied it, your hair- and then… er… ” 

Confusion resided on the redhead's features for a few moments, and then complete and utter excitement took its place. He shot upright, straddling Azira, and rubbed his palms against his chest.

“You naughty little angel! Your very first fantasy with me was of fucking my mouth? Ohhh, that is _ delicious. _ You’re full of surprises, you. No wonder you couldn’t look me in the face for so long after that trip- look how _ red _you are. Fuck, you’re precious,” Crowley teased mercilessly, leaning down to place smooches on his face with wreckless abandon, “We could make that fantasy a reality, you know. I’d let you do anything to me. I mean it. Anything. But then, you must’ve known to think of something like that.” 

The promise sent a thrill surging through Azira that he pressed right back down, replacing it with a fussy fretting and tutting at Crowley, “Not until you’re fully recovered, you wicked little devil.” 

Crowley grinned, resting his hands on Azira’s shoulders and lowering back down to bump their foreheads together, “I think you’re a little in love with this wicked little devil.” 

“Hmmm,” Azira pretended to think before cracking a small smile and muttering against Crowley’s lips, ever so sweetly, “I believe I just might be. Hopelessly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -SUMMARY-  
Due to his sexual history of using intimacy to momentarily quell (but ultimately worsening) his self-loathing and feelings of being unwanted, Crowley tries to keep quiet through his pain while he and Azira are necking. Azira identifies this and initiates a much-needed conversation about the expectations of their relationship. Using some sweet words to reaffirm that he wants to share the load of Crowley's traumas and burdens, Azira gets Crowley to agree to quit keeping secrets and spinning lies. He states he doesn't expect Crowley to form some master list of every single thing Azira doesn't know, but that he needs to get the habit of sharing when he's in emotional turmoil. Crowley gets a bit hesitant when Azira states this applies to their sex life, too, and that he's expected to state when he's in pain or discomfort. Unaccustomed to being the center of attention or being asked what he wants and uncomfortable with asking to be serviced, Crowley is unsure that he can abide. So, Azira gives him a (very steamy) hands-on lesson in communication that successfully gets Crowley comfortable with identifying and voicing his desires and discomforts. Post-coital cuddling occurs and Crowley gets Azira to regale him with his first fantasy of him. Smooches are had and 'i love you's exchanged.  
-END SUMMARY- 
> 
> *finger guns* The theme of this week's chapter is "Communication is Sexy". Hope you enjoyed it ;P After 24 chapters of waiting with only the snack of Azira's shower to tide you over, I thought I ought to give you a meal. Ended up a bit more like a feast. ~Ooops~ This one was kind of vanilla, given the context. There will be kinkier shit to come.
> 
> Might be (might not) a bit of a wait before the next chapter, as while I know specific scenes and the general direction I want to go with this story, I need to take some time to put them all in order. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for the comments and kudos! I love you guys and sharing this story with you has been so amazing!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira and Crowley identify what, exactly, their new relationship is. Crowley assists in a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Valencia attempts to navigate the new difficulties and social dynamics of Crowley's life and figure out where she fits into it all.

The faint pink and orange glow of the rising sun rushing through the castle windows to bathe the chambers within gave the indication of a summer day. The way it warmed the skin of the two figures tangled in the bedsheets of a four-postered bed, one awake and reading and the other asleep with his face buried into a soft chest, might have suggested the accompaniment of cheery birds’ morning songs. However, the cold reality that marked mid-March in the Highlands left the air void of any such calls. Soft hooting sounded by the owls waiting to deliver morning post and the boisterous howling of harsh winds served as the only ambient noise of the quiet Wednesday morning. 

Still, Crowley didn’t stir at the noise. He slept soundly, as he had all night. So much so that the blonde he was wrapped around like a koala to a tree couldn’t help but be impressed by it. Azira had seen the redhead asleep before. Naturally. Doubt filled him at the idea that Crowley might love anything as much as he loved naps, but there was something different about this. Perhaps it was that even in sleep, the greedy little devil was still demanding his undivided attention. How could he be blamed when at last he didn’t need to fear any repercussions after years of caution? The freedom and happiness of this new reality was still vibrating through him, causing his very bones to sing. 

Azira had a book out, precariously balanced on the hip that wasn’t smothered by Crowley’s stomach. Some recent acquisition detailing wizarding influences on Muggle folklore, a valuable resource for his own research thesis. In truth, Crowley’s occasional mumbles and soft snores tickling against his pale blonde chest hairs were less of a distraction from his reading as much as his reading was a distraction from admiring the precious scene he was privy to. 

This was their first morning waking up together. Well, a more probable analysis would suggest they would never actually wake up together, as the lanky figure was not an early riser. Azira himself hardly ever slept more than a few hours. Thus, even after their late night together, he’d been up a couple hours since. Taking care not to shift too much, he reached a deft hand out to grasp for his pocket watch on the side table. A familiar press of his thumb to the cool metal clasp revealed the face of the clock, the arms within declaring it 7:13 AM, leaving them only a mere seventeen minutes to get ready for breakfast. This wasn’t the first occasion the blonde had checked the time. He’d been telling himself he would give Crowley five more minutes each of the six times he’d checked his watch within the last hour. 

But when each of those five minutes summoned just a bit more light, that light would illuminate a touch more detail. It would show the twitching fingertips of a long hand and make Azira wonder what Crowley was doing in his dreams. A little more revealed the vast expanse of freckles washing over those slender shoulders and that slim back, and the waking wizard would get lost mapping out the infinite constellations they formed, committing them to memory as if this was the first and last time he’d be blessed with this sight. When the sun was peering half-way over the array of snow-capped mountains on the horizon, blue eyes were finally able to observe the shapes lying beneath the covers enough to understand the frankly bizarre manner in which Crowley had snaked his limbs through Azira’s own, and the librarian marvelled at how he could possibly appear so comfortable. While he wished he could see the expression on the angular face he loved so dearly- to watch those red lashes shift as the golden galaxies that lay beneath them took in a hundred visions he would never know- there was no shortage of wonders to find elsewhere. As the space between Crowley’s shoulders raised and he took in a long, slow breath, Azira held his own, wondering if his beloved would wake of his own accord. Instead, it was leisurely sighed out, and the unconscious figure somehow managed to nuzzle even closer. Any more, and they would fuse irreversibly, Azira was sure. 

Oh, confound it. He’d done it again. It was 7:21, now. Minding to keep it gentle, he raised his hand to stroke through those lovely red locks, marveling at how soft they were. Crowley had found himself far too tired to abuse them with product by the time they’d finished with a shower the night before. It was this soft when it was long, too, and Azira found himself stricken with a bit of heartache for those missing locks. 

Would it be selfish to mention he did so love them long? No matter, with how fickle Crowley was he’d change his hair up of his own accord, soon. Azira was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had with it at the same length. What had he mentioned when he’d cut it, again? Something about how it was too effeminate, he recalled. Surely, his gender identity changed often enough that he wouldn’t feel that way much longer. Strange he’d felt that way to begin with, really, considering it was no rarity for him to sport long hair when presenting masculine or short hair when feminine. He’d been stuck in this particular mindset and gender for an inordinately long stint of time- over a month, now. Azira had half a mind to inquire if everything was alright, but who was he to question Crowley’s perception of his own gender or how he expressed it? 

“Wake up, my darling, it’s morning,” Azira mumbled, brushing stray strands out of Crowley’s face. 

It was more the vibrations of Azira’s chest against Crowley’s jaw that summoned him from slumber than the soft voice itself. The figure stirred with a long inhale and raised his head. Bleary yellow eyes squinted open to take in the surroundings until finding Azira, and a lazy little grin graced his lips before he nuzzled his nose into Azira’s chest, yanking the thick comforter up to his chin and cuddling back into a comfortable position. The soft pulse of his heartbeat felt against the blonde’s stomach quickened, and no doubt Crowley could hear Azira’s heart quicken in kind. Azira could empathize with the inordinate happiness of waking up to the reality of their togetherness. He’d experienced it only hours earlier. 

“Sod morning,” Crowley sighed. The brief interaction served substantial to deliver the message that he was quite happy remaining where he was.

“It’s only a few minutes to breakfast,” Azira insisted, a bit of a petulant tone sneaking into the words. The night before, Crowley had clung on for life and fallen asleep so fast Azira wasn’t able to get the much-needed snacks he required after their romp. Now, the promise of sustenance may have been just enough inspiration to pry Crowley off of him. Nothing could get between him and breakfast. Not even a _ very _cute morning boyfriend. Or his bedhead. Which was also very cute. Fine. It might have been enough, but what precedent would it set to give in so easily this first morning?

“Sod breakfast.” The wizard punctuated the sentiment by further yanking the covers up over his head. 

“Come on now, Crowley. You know how frightfully tetchy I get during the work day upon missing breakfast.” 

“Sod _ wooooork.” _

Azira felt the long arms of his partner slink further around his waist and tightly squeeze. Blue eyes gave a theatrical roll. The book was gingerly placed on the nightstand. Soft, broad hands found their way under the covers and smoothed over Crowley’s upper back, drawing out a happy hum that buzzed beneath Azira’s palms.

“Yes, yes. I know the whole song and dance. I’ve heard it before. Morning is the bane of your existence. The sun is armed with a personal vendetta against you. Everyone and everything can bugger off.” 

“Not you, though_ , _” came a muffled correction from beneath the covers. 

“Well, I’m very much inclined to do so, my dear. Right to the Great Hall. So I can leave you here, or you can come with me. What shall it be?” 

“Mmm can’t hear you. Already back asleep. Guess yo- gon- you’re ju- you’re just going to have to stay here with me.” 

“Must you be so difficult? Be a good lad and release me.” 

“Damn right I must. You’re too warm and soft to let slip away. Besides- me? Good? Never.”

“You can find something else to give a cuddle,” Azira insisted. While his resolve was undoubtedly weakened by the sweet temptations, he knew that at some point this morning, Crowley would have to let him go. The late sleeper hadn’t a clue how long Azira had already postponed the inevitability. 

“Shit argument. The fuck would I want to cuddle besides you?” 

“I’d hate to resort to force,” Azira warned weakly, pretending his heart wasn’t melting at the affections. He narrowed his eyes at the shape of Crowley’s figure beneath the blankets as if it would have any effect. The form shifted as the belligerent man sounded a boisterous snort of amusement. 

“I’m so scared,” he deadpanned, “Do your worst, Fell.”

Ever-hesitant to antagonize, Azira took a moment to consider if he should and resigned to stand his ground. After all, he had given a warning. His hands crept lower before launching to attack the sides of Crowley’s waist with merciless tickling. 

“AaGH- FUCK!” Crowley shouted, flailing his limbs and effectively throwing the covers off of himself. He squirmed away from Azira reflexively and rolled onto his back, landing somewhere near the opposite edge of the bed. He gave his partner a glare of resentment that could only be categorized as pouting. “Now _ that _was playing dirty. ‘N you want me to tell you my secrets! How can I ever trust you again?” 

“Oh don’t be a sore loser, Dearest,” Azira tutted while meandering about his chambers to find his clothes for the day, not appearing the slightest bit fussed. His practiced hands moved to button up his shirt cuffs, and with his expression the very picture of innocence, he leaned down to kiss Crowley’s cheek before muttering in his ear. “Besides. The takeaway really isn’t that you mustn't trust me with secrets. It’s that you ought not to cross me.” 

As he stood back upright, it took a remarkable tax on his composure not to burst into laughter at the flustered and surprised look betraying itself on Crowley’s features. 

“So, are you going to go get changed and meet me at breakfast?” 

The pout returned, and golden eyes rolled before the redhead laboured a sigh, “Yes.” 

He shifted to sit up, stifling a loud groan and hissing in pain. Azira rushed to his side, gingerly guiding him back down to his lying position. 

“Scratch that. No,” Crowley groaned. 

Azira sat on the edge of the bed, disapproval dancing over his face. Worried hands fussed at the robe he’d set in his lap. “Crowley,” he began, voice drenched in that tone that threatened a lengthy lecture, “Did your early discharge from the hospital happen to come with any particular parameters?” 

A prolonged silence passed between them, Azira pinning Crowley down with a stern glance and Crowley responding with a coy grin that pleaded innocence. 

“Hard to hear while I was on my way out the door. Something ‘bout not working until Tuesday. And… something about staying in bed- which- _ to be fair _ \- I _ was _in bed. You should know. You were there,” he attempted with a timid grin. 

The stern glance hardened. 

“... Oh _ come on _ , Angel. She just said not to push myself. I didn’t. You made sure of that. I really wasn’t trying to keep secrets. I didn’t think about it like that. I just-.” He paused, letting out a deep sigh and taking Azira’s hand, which instinctively closed into a fist. Crowley didn’t let it deter him. “I told you, my love for you makes me barkin’ mad. Makes me forget everything else. Makes me do stupid stuff, even if I kn- knnn- know you wouldn’t like it. Honestly. I wasn’t trying to keep anything. I just… I wanted to _ give _you everything. I’ve held it in for so long, can you really be angry at me for letting it out?” 

Crowley held his breath until he saw the clouds drift away and those blue skies open up for him yet again. Azira’s hand loosened, winding soft fingers through his own calloused digits. 

“No, I can’t. But I can worry. If the situation were reversed, I know you would, too. I’m sending Healer Atwater an owl so she can reiterate your regimen to someone who will actually ensure you abide by it.” 

He took his hand back so it might participate in the familiar ritual of tying his bowtie before standing and swinging his robe behind him to slide on and adjust above his vest. Crowley huffed, blowing a particularly long strand of hair out of his eyes. Azira fussed to straighten his bowtie in the ornate mirror mounted on the wall, slowing when he clocked the downcast expression on his lover’s face in the reflected glass. That wasn’t pouting. It was something more genuine. It came from somewhere darker and more painful. 

“You worry too much as it is. Have Thelpie send for it. I’ll get back to my chambers and she can take care of me there. You can visit me whenever you’d like, then you won’t have to think about it.” 

Azira took a long look at him in the mirror, chewing on his lip as he tried to find the source of the moodiness lurking beneath those words, “Darling, I do have a sense of object permanence. I don’t forget about you the moment you disappear from view. If anything, I worry much more when I can’t check on you. Recruiting Thelpie’s help is a splendid idea, however. No reason she can’t help you from here.” 

“You wouldn’t want me invading your space for so long,” was the next contribution to an argument the blonde couldn’t quite understand the basis of. 

Crowley had turned his face away, but Azira could see the reflection of his jaw clenching and the way he wrapped an arm around himself. Swallowing a dozen different protests at the suggestion, he opted to turn to his partner instead and smiled, figuring Crowley looked quite in need of some warmth. 

“Pray tell, my dear, why wouldn’t I want that?” 

The question didn’t earn him permission to see the herbologist’s face, but it did draw some hesitation. 

“I don’t want you getting sick of me. Wondering ‘what am I going to do with you?’” 

With a moment’s pause, Azira cocked his head, gauging if his partner could possibly be serious before falling prone to a snicker. Perhaps this wasn’t the time for sarcasm or teasing, but he couldn’t keep either at bay while voicing, “Really, Anthony? I’ve been asking myself that for two years, and I’m pretty sure you were there when I finally decided exactly what I’m going to do with you; I’m keeping you, you ridiculous man.” 

This did draw Crowley’s attention, exposing the astonishment that resided on his face. 

“Why are you so surprised? I suppose we haven’t gone over the details, but I _ did _assume declaring our undying love and desire to be together implied something of a relationship. Was I wrong to do so?”

“No!” Crowley exclaimed at such a breakneck speed, he nearly forgot his own condition and attempted to sit upright. A flush of embarrassment from his eagerness rushed to his cheeks, and he cleared his throat in an attempt to regain some composure. Instead, he rambled, “No- I mean. I thought so, too. I mean- fuck. I want that. Absolutely. ‘S long as you do.” 

“Right. And would you say I know you?” 

“‘Course. Better than anyone.”

Azira pressed forward, minding to keep the butterflies in his chest at the genuineness of the response so he might keep his head clear. “And would you describe me as intelligent?” 

“Obviously. You’re the cleverest person I know- probably the cleverest person anyone knows.” 

“Then I’d say the only person here doing any unwarranted worrying is _ you,” _Azira grinned, nearing the bed and sliding a thumb to caress over Anthony’s sharp cheekbone, “I know what I’ve signed up for, my darling. I meant it when I said I wish to stand by you even when things are difficult, just like I know you wish to for me.”

He paused, sitting beside Crowley yet again as he examined lingering doubt. That simply wouldn’t do.

“Please, Anthony. I need you to understand that caring for you will never be a burden. I can’t get enough of you, no matter what your fashion. I’d rather have you here at your most belligerent and difficult than spend another moment apart. Even just this short time away with you in the hospital- having to be away from you and-.” Azira took a moment for a breath, closing his eyes until he was sure he’d suppressed the tears beginning to surface at entertaining the recent memory. It was a fresh wound- one the pair had yet to take the chance to examine, clean, and stitch up. “And being forced to simply _ trust _that you would be alright- that you were being cared for properly, it- I was a terrible mess. You haven’t an idea.” 

The soft, open smile he received felt like resurfacing from water for a breath of air. Crowley’s eyes glimmered with unabashed adoration and wonder, and a spindly hand raised to rest over his while the redhead turned his face to kiss the palm trapped there. 

“You’re- you’re just- there’s you, yeah? I love you,” Crowley urged, as if Azira needed to be convinced.

“I know,” Azira reassured with a warm smile, leaning down to lay a deep kiss on his dearest person’s lips, “and I you.” 

With a sigh of contentment and a final kiss to the tip of Crowley’s nose, he stood upright again and cleared the overbearing emotion from his voice. “Right. It is a shame you can’t come to breakfast. I can bring something back for you, but you must be nearly as famished as I am.” 

“Oh, yeah, big breakfast, I would have there in front of everyone,” Crowley drawled, the words drenched in sarcasm.

“Ah, right,” Azira acknowledged, waiting a moment. They didn’t talk about Crowley’s eating habits- or lack thereof. Not this directly. The only time was when he had caught Crowley in the act, warranting an explanation. Was this an invitation? A gateway to further discovery? The pause provided to allow Crowley to confide stretched on a bit long. No dark secrets or origin stories were shared. Instead, a red eyebrow was cocked in his direction. 

“Don’t you start fussin’. Thelpie will bring me something. Go on then, Angel. Your adoring fans await.” Crowley flapped his hand in Azira’s direction, stretching out again and snuggling a pillow to his chest with the clear intent of going back to sleep. 

“I’m going to be sure she does. No tricks, Crowley. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” 

“Oh, the terror,” Crowley droned, cracking an eye open to glance at Azira’s reaction to his cheeky grin. 

“Shall I recount your lesson about crossing me?” 

The covers were snatched over the herbologist’s figure as if they might serve as protective armor for impending tickle threats.

“No tricks, was it? Right. Got it.” 

* * *

It turned out that when not cooped up in an unfamiliar place and surrounded by Healers that only saw fault in his words, actions, and existence, bedrest was not at all the dreaded Hell that Crowley had feared. In fact, it was something much closer to Heaven, manned by the only angel he cared for to begin with. It felt like eons now that he’d fantasized of being invited into Azira’s chambers and falling into his bed. Now, not only was he not required to crawl out of it, he was _ expected _not to. Mornings, afternoons, and evenings, filled with nothing but sleeping, sleeping, and more sleeping. It was quite literally a dream come true. Then, in his rare waking hours, Azira joining him. Being permitted to wind himself around that hallowed figure compiled of softness and love and acceptance. Crowley’s days were composed of a rest he hadn’t allowed himself in decades, conversation so blissfully trivial he never could have entertained it before his research found its resolution, and held most sacred of all- time. At last, time with his most beloved person.

In the beginning, Crowley became uncomfortably aware of a new-born fear taking the place of where his dread of unrequited love had been before. It took very few restless hours to discover what it was; he was afraid that things would change between him and Azira. Perhaps there would be some new tension or a pressure to behave differently. Then, Azira opted to spend his lunch hour with Crowley. It was an hour filled with teasing over books, listening to ramblings of subjects he could care less about, and humorously passionate indignation over the hybridization of plants that were _ clearly _incompatible. The same bantering and bickering and laughter as ever passed between them. It ended as unfairly soon as all their meetings did, and upon resigning himself to return to work, Azira did the last thing Crowley had expected to end their comfortable routine- he leaned down to kiss him. The simple reminder banished away the fear from Crowley’s heart like a flame chasing away the shadows. All the important parts- the bits that made up Azira and Crowley and everything in between- they were the same. Azira remained his very best friend. Only now, there was room for even more. 

A futile attempt had been made by Azira to ban unchaste physicality until Crowley’s full recovery. With some well placed and heart-wrenchingly earnest temptations, the rule was quickly amended to allow for wandering hands. Truly, were Azira’s call for chastity to have remained in place, it would have been of little consequence. His presence alone was more cause for happiness than Crowley had ever experienced, but neither of them were able to resist indulging in the intoxicatingly delicious fruit that had so recently been forbidden. Every day was a remarkable instance of bliss that Crowley doubted the reality of until inevitably waking up beside his lover the next morning. 

At least, that was the case for the first few days. Then the Herbologist took a sharp turn from worshiping his regimen to hating it. A half-hour of cardio every morning, noon, and evening, however slow a pace he was permitted, was enough to inspire Crowley to plan a myriad of mischief for his former caretakers at St. Mungoes. Azira no sooner admitted he was simply not wicked enough to tear the redhead from comfort and ensure his suffering than Valencia Heller all-too-eagerly volunteered for the task. Crowley was unsure if he hated the 6 AM laps around the castle or the witch bursting in twenty minutes earlier to grab him by the ankles and rip him away from Azira more. Perhaps neither. Perhaps her attempts at motivating him through the therapy by boisterously jeering at him through an amplifying charm were most deserving of his loathing. 

More than once, Crowley had sprawled out on the ground and in a performance as theatrical as any Shakespearean production declared he was staging a peaceful protest. “Uh oh, here comes your man! He’s going to see how pathetic you are!” she would attempt to deceive. An exhausted arm would flop in her direction in a display of indifference. “He knows,” Crowley would groan in defeat.

Fair enough, he came to reason when Monday came along. It was his last day before returning to work, and after trying and failing (more than once) to infiltrate Azira’s tutoring sessions, he decided perhaps the most entertainment could be found by witnessing whatever sorry excuse for a lesson plan Professor Heller had managed to scrape up all by her lonesome. Utter chaos, he imagined. 

A short stroll to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom proved his suspicions correct. She had, indeed, managed to surprise him with her tactics, which were- none at all, apparently. 

The students' chairs were clumped up into groups. The occasional loner would be slumped over their desk, fast asleep. Enchanted paper airplanes drifted lazily overhead, a couple children across the room from each other throwing quaffles back and forth, coming dangerously close to knocking against the dragon skeleton precariously hung from the ceiling. The only sounds filling the room were the dull thudding of the ball being caught, the rustling of paper from notes being passed back and forth, and a chorus of soft snoring. A set of rules were written ever-so-eloquently on the blackboard beside a large anarchy symbol. 

**Strong Suggestions (because rules are for oppressive regimes. Fuck the system.) **

  1. **Shut it**
  2. **Don’t bother me**
  3. **Don’t be a snitch**
  4. **House to follow the above the best gets 5 points at the end of class**

Seated at the desk at the front of the room, a familiar witch was balanced on the back two legs of her chair, feet crossed on the desk, and leaned back with an open magazine laying over her face. 

Crowley leaned against the doorway for a good few moments, finding them necessary for taking in exactly what he was witnessing. With a quiet clearing of his throat, the students who had bothered to stay awake looked over with bored, tired glances, immediately brightening at the sight of him. Third years, he identified. With a lazy two-fingered salute of greeting, he pressed off the doorway to saunter down the center of the classroom, making scarce a sound. 

He paused near the black board, flipping it to its clean side. With a long, thoughtful sigh, he swung his arm to snatch up the chalk. A black-tipped finger raised to adjust his sunglasses and scratch the side of his nose before he raised his hand to scratch out a note in his wretched, all-capitalized font.

**TODAY’S LESSON: EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED**

The chalk was pointedly set down, and Crowley cleared his throat yet again while slowly swaggering towards Valencia. He tilted his head, taking in her snoozing form as if providing her one last opportunity to wake up. When she didn’t take it, he hooked his snake-skin boot-clad foot around one of the two chair legs contacting the ground, and gave it a sharp pull. 

“_ ¡Mierda!” _Val gasped out just before spilling onto the floor. The room erupted into gasps, gossip, and uproarious laughter. The magazine was snatched off her face, revealing the intention for murder that resided there instead. It quickly died as she gazed up at Crowley and realized her ploy had come to an end. 

“Good morning, Professor Heller.” 

“What the hell, AJ?” she growled, huffing as she managed to pull herself up, arms coming to drape over the edge of the desk.

“Well, I know we always did share a fondness for learning through _ example, _so, I thought I’d give you some assistance.” 

Had he not known her better, the menacing glare he was challenged with might have filled him with terror. Instead, he casually jerked his head in the direction of the black board. Heller seemed to pick up the hint, the corners of her lips twitching downward. The suggestion of anger was still there, but as her green eyes flicked to the room and back at him in a panicked question, he became aware that what she was feeling was uncertainty. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. It would be mad for her not to be uncertain in her new reality. It was, however, an unfamiliar phenomenon for her, as in their youth, she was self-assured to a fault. She’d always enjoyed public speaking. Enjoyed the effortless command of attention. He’d bet his last galleon that she still did. Perhaps all she needed was to be thrown a bone. 

Crowley wandered past her, swinging a hand low to grasp the chair and spin it backwards before perching down into it. 

“Professor Heller and I were students together, you know. Always was a wicked duelist.”

“Were you an auror?” one of the students piped up, a young Syltherin. Although the general population of students remained terrified of the strange new professor, some were comforted enough by Crowley’s presence to lean in or consider inquiring further.

“Pfft, me?” Val erupted into giggles in the midst of dusting off her robes, “I really look like I have that big a stick stuck up my- uh. Er. That is, nah. Not a fan of rules, me. Do fancy breakin’ ‘em, though.” 

“So that’s how you’re friends with Professor Crowley,” a young, dark-skinned and redheaded Gryffindor remarked with a smirk, drawing a litany of laughter from the rest of the class. 

“Not that you could ever relate, eh, Weasley?” Crowley snarked, flashing his own toothy grin at the girl. “But it’s true. Queen of the Dueling Club, her. Had the whole sch- qua- scho- school quaking in their boots from second year on.”

“Second year?” scoffed Corrine Leveret, one of the Slytherins that had her nose stuck elevated in the air so permanently Crowley was madly curious how her classmates weren’t holding contests of who could shove something up it without her noticing, “That’s hardly possible.” 

“Oh, it is. Shall we entertain them, Professor Heller?”

The aforementioned professor was a bit distracted, her line of sight still fixed on the young girl her friend had referred to as a Weasley. “Huh?” she asked upon returning to her senses. Hoping the question was one that needed a simple affirmation or refutation, she nodded dumbly, “Uh, yeah, go for it.”

“Right. So. First time we went had to be halfway through the year. They’d been teaching expulso for weeks, we’d missed all the lessons, but the others’d had loads of practice. The professors ask who wants to show off what they’ve got. First volunteer is this huge, seventh-year bloke, but far be Heller here to let logic win the day, she can’t forgo the chance at a bit of glory. So, this itty bitty little brat crawls up onto the platform. Everyone starts laughin’ and jeerin’ from the get go because- I mean. You can imagine. It’s like a garden gnome trying to tussle with a troll.” 

A round of laughter sounded from the students at the image Crowley painted. A grin twitched on both professors' mouths. 

“‘Course he needs to go on some huge spiel ‘bout how he’ll go easy on her, gotta look like a big man, after all. The duel starts and he takes one step- just one step- and falls flat on his face. Heller here disarms him and sends him flyin’ back head over heels. Duel’s over in five seconds. Rumors start flying around the school that this little second year Hufflepuff can do silent Dark Magic.”

Near the end of the story, Crowley’s composure loosened, and by the end of it, both he and Heller were beside themself with hearty cackling at the memory.

“Wait- so- can you?” 

“Nahhh! Crowley tied the daft fool’s shoe-laces together during his rant!” 

The room burst into laughter at the twist. Leveret looked greatly offended at the implication of dishonor that went along with the story, “That’s not right! Certainly, that’s against the rules?” 

“The rules?” Valencia repeated as she seated herself against the edge of the desk, crossing her arms and cocking a brow. An amused, toothy grin captivated her features. 

“Well… yes!” 

“Tell me, Girl-”

“Leveret” 

“Right, whatever- it’s also against etiquette to kiss someone without asking consent first. When a dementor tries to give you the ol’ ‘Smooch of Death’, you think pointing out that your mummy said a gent should buy you dinner first is going to matter?” 

Leveret turned pink at the next round of laughter that ripped through the class. Crowley smiled to himself, pleased his little plot was proving effective. Valencia was clearly settling into her role, and the students were slowly releasing the anxiety of unknowing that had gripped them earlier. 

“Let me guess, your previous instructor said some shit about how ‘dueling is like dancing’, eh?” 

A general assent sounded back at her from the classroom. 

“Right, Lockhart spewed the same nonsense. Then, I hope you like Freestyle, because if you’re dueling properly, no ‘rules’ should be impacting your actions.” 

“Wouldn’t that be chaos?” piped up another voice.

“It would. It’s exhilarating. But what else would you call fighting for your life? I promise you, your opponent won’t care about the rules, and the more you abide by, the more capable they are of predicting your next move.” 

Valencia seemed oblivious of the fact that several students were now scratching out notes on parchment. 

“So why do we have them?” Talpin asked. 

“Historical fanfare and decorum, mostly. _ Andddd _so you lot don’t murder each other at dueling club. So, the rules will, sadly, remain in place there. But not in here. In here I’m going to teach you how to act on instinct, watch for your opponents next move, and think spontaneously, because when you’re attacked, your reaction will be whatever is most familiar, and if it’s those bloody rules, you’re as good as dead.”

“Can you slow down?” groaned a Slytherin student struggling to keep up, “How are we supposed to observe our opponent _ and _ act spontaneously _ and _listen to our instincts? I thought you said they wouldn’t be following any rules, that it wasn’t like dancing.” 

“I said if it is, it’s like freeform, so it’s like- it’s like,” she looked around it, approaching the board and grabbing the chalk before drawing two collumns and a diagram of two figures, the deulest and their opponent. She scribbled and wrote key words in the columns as she spoke, “Every action you have, there’s a tell to it. Just like you can tell how someone’s feeling from their expression. If they lead- it’s crucial not to follow, but pay attention. It will give away where they’re going, and you need to think about how to take advantage of that while preserving spontaneity. If they don’t lead, they’re going to try to follow you, so you don’t lead, you remain in the moment, separate and self-aware. The more you act unexpectedly and expect the unexpected, the higher your chance of making it out alive. If you can’t think out of the box, you’d better stick with someone who can. Get yourself a friend who thinks to tie shoelaces together.” 

Crowley was halfway to the door before Valencia finally noticed, breaking from the rhythm she’d found, “Leaving so soon, Ton- Professor Crowley?” 

He turned to spread his arms wide in a gesture of remiss, “Tragic, I know. The sixth years are learning how to feed the giant carnivorous plants today and as you might imagine, something amusing almost inevitably happens every year. Can’t miss it.” 

“Woah! Are we going to get to learn that?” Roxanne Weasley asked with far too much mischief in her tone.

“L- le- let’s see how you do on your OWLs, first, yeah?” he mused. With a final smirk in Val’s direction and an encouraging nod, she took a deep breath and cleared her throat. 

“Right, so let’s assume you run into… oh, I don’t know, a werewolf, for example-” 

Crowley smiled upon his retreat, hearing her certain voice fade as he got farther away. He could trick even the most defiant witch in the world into finding herself excited about something she swore she wouldn’t be caught dead doing. 

“Oh yeah!” he pumped his fist, jumping up to smack the raised hand of a statue, “Who’s the king? I’m the king.” 

* * *

“-but surely referring to the entire Ottoman Empire as ‘Western’ would be a horrendously incorrect if not harmful generalization. In truth there was such a small part that was composed of European territory at its height.” 

“So don’t write ‘bout it,” Crowley droned boredly, stretched out like a starfish on the rug of Azira’s office floor. 

“Oh, but Crowley, the split of their society into magical and non-magical factions had such a marvelously momentous impact on the deviation of their literature! It’s the kind of phenomenon I would _ dream _of addressing in my research. It fits my thesis like a glove!”

“So write ‘bout it,” Crowley mumbled, flopping over onto his stomach to stare into the flames of the fireplace. He hoped he’d effectively rolled into the path Azira was pacing on, then the librarian would have no choice but to acknowledge his existence. 

“I can’t white-wash an entire civilization just to make it suit my purposes! How frightfully corrupt would that be?” 

“So don’t write about it.” 

“Perhaps I should change my thesis-”

“Angel.” 

“-expand it past the Western world-”

“Az, you’re doing it again.”

“-I would have so much rich literature to work with and pivotal seceding of countless magical peoples to analyze!” 

“I’m _ dyyyyying,” _Crowley wailed, swinging his limbs to theatrically flop back down on the floor. 

Instead of the attention he longed for, he was swatted at with a wad of rolled up parchment, “Well, stop staring into the fire! You’ll damage your eyes!” 

“No, Azira, I’m dying,” he whined. 

“You’re fine. Oh dear. Broadening the area my research addresses would give me more options, but no doubt I’d have to exclude a shameful amount of important contributions to the evolution of literature. The topic would be so diluted I doubt my findings would be at all conclusive.” 

“Azira. Didn’t you hear me?” 

“I do love so many authors of Eastern origin, but I suppose my forte really is geared more towards Western prose. At least, I’ve studied much more European contributions in my educational pursuits.”

“I’m a plant and your attention is my s- sss- eh, sunshine and I’m withering away.” 

“Crowley, enough of the dramatics. You made me hold you through the entirety of an hour long nap just this afternoon. Remember? Before our _ two hours _of wizards chess?” Azira sighed, pulling off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes in frustration. 

“.... y’know, most plants need more than three hours of sunshine a day!” 

“That’s almost as sweet as it is pathetic.” 

“Oy!” Crowley whined, rolling over onto his back yet again so he could more effectively target his pouting in Azira’s direction. Instead he found the wizard standing not a foot away, looking down at him with a brow cocked in amusement. Crowley shimmied his glasses down his nose, giving his best puppy-dog eyes. “Is it so bad that I love you so much I can’t get enough of you?” 

“Right. It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that your research is away being tested, you haven’t any new papers to grade, Neville prepared the next two weeks of lesson planning for you before he left, you’re experiencing writer’s block with your book, and you now have more free time than you know what to do with, rendering you completely and utterly _ bored?” _

Crowley gazed up at him with a caught expression, noting the Azira was already looking smug from the obvious answer. 

“... It can be both,” he mumbled in defiance.

“Oh thank Satan, I was worried I’d interrupt something gross,” came Valencia’s voice at the door. 

“No, Azira’s being _ boring. _On a Friday night, no less,” Crowley pouted, earning a heavy eye-roll from the angel. 

“Right, so he won’t mind if I steal you?” 

“Good Lord. Please. Take him,” Azira encouraged with a passive wave of his hand. 

Crowley hardly had time to look betrayed before Valencia yanked him up from the floor, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. “Hey!” he whined in indignation. 

“Have fun,” the librarian called half-heartedly though clearly reabsorbed in his notes. 

The redhead managed to escape Valencia’s grip long enough to poke his head back into the room and growl, “Don’t change your bloody thesis! You’re half-way done, you loon!” before she grasped the back of his robes and towed him away again. 

Azira turned back to examine the extensive notes he had and pursed his lips, quirking his head at them. This wasn’t the first time he had entertained altering his thesis. It was always inspired by some exciting read that pulled his interests awry. Crowley always helped ground him back to the one he’d started with and _ was, _in fact, most passionate about at heart. There was truth in what he’d said to him the week before; even when he was being an insufferable, distracting drama queen, Azira did so love having him around, but he knew how to share.

“So, where to? _ Please _say we’re going to get done up to go to a club for baby’s first one-night-stand?” Crowley rushed out as Val dragged him down the hallway. 

“No, but remind me to revisit that. I have loads of questions about all that business. Anyway! It’s almost time for Dueling Club. You’re going to be my _ gorgeous _assistant,” she schmoozed with a wink. 

The pair almost fell over as Crowley abruptly halted in his tracks. 

“V, I can’t do that.” 

“Nonsense. You’re the one that showed me I might not be total rubbish at all this ‘teaching’ business to begin with. C’monnnn I need you there!” 

Golden eyes turned to look back in the direction of the library, “You should- you should ask Azira. I told you; he’s good at battle magic. I’m- I’m pants at it.” 

Valencia’s smile started to fall, “You’re good enough to stand still while I petrify you for a single second.” 

Crowley’s stomach turned at the idea of being rendered motionless. Defenseless. Helpless. 

“I du- dun- eh, dunno, V. I don’t think so.” 

She frowned now, “Look I know you’re all ‘grown-up’ now or whatever but can’t you humor me this one time? I understood when you said the lingering pains are too spontaneous to play quidditch. And I got it when you said heads of houses shouldn’t play pranks that upset their students. But what excuse do you possibly have for this? Because I’m starting to just think you don’t even care to _ try _ to fit me into your life.” 

“Oh, c’mon, you can’t really believe that?” Crowley jeered, trying to initiate some sort of playful banter. Instead he was met with a serious, wounded stare. He leaned back, swallowing hard. If he told her the truth there was no way she’d understand. He was sure she already thought he’d gone soft- totally sold out with both his ambitions and his social life. What would she think were she to know he was a pathetic coward as well? His jaw pulsated as he anxiously ground his teeth before resigning with a shuttering exhale, “Yeah. Yeah, I can do this. I’m sorry. I do care. You have to believe me.” 

Green eyes searched his face around his glasses, seeming to find his disposition genuine enough. With a slow sigh, she nodded and offered a small smile, “Good I-... I’m relieved. Hey, thanks for hearing me out, parce.” 

* * *

Crowley had once heard that the road to Hell was paved with good intentions. No wonder he was one of its favorite patrons. 

He’d gotten through the example duel well enough. No horrid flash backs. No auditory hallucinations. No breathing complications. Only mild tunnel vision, a bit of shaking, and a racing heart. He figured perhaps the dueling practice Emile had bullied him into had been more effective than he’d originally believed. The students did good. They listened well. And then there was that stupid accident.

Hatch had stood too close to the wall when Browne threw the petrification spell his way. He’d cracked his head open on the stone wall. It all had been quick, and while Val initially panicked, Crowley had snapped to action. It was an out-of-body experience, strangely enough. He’d watched himself from afar as he cast a spell to stop the bleeding, asked all the right questions to ensure Hatch’s mental functioning was not awry. He’d sent Valencia to take him to the infirmary and shooed the students back to their dorms. 

The moment the last student left the room, it all fell to pieces. 

When Val returned, clapping her hands and rubbing them together before confidently strutting through the door and a cheery, “let’s take that as a learning experience and step _ away _ from the walls yeah?” she was surprised to find the room empty. At least, it seemed so, until she heard ragged breathing and intermittent sobs. She turned about the room, curiously, before peering behind the heavy wooden door finding an all-too-familiar figure huddled there on the floor.

“AJ?” she asked, anxiety creeping through the curiosity in her voice. To say this was irregular would be a significant understatement. He didn’t respond. She crouched low, heart wrenching in her chest at the way he flinched away from her and choked on a sob. He was gasping and wheezing as if he couldn’t breathe. 

“Tony?” she asked with a great deal more panic, grabbing his forearms, to which he winced much harder at, desperately wrestling his arms away from her. “What’s wrong? Tell me! Anthony, what’s going on?” 

She’d never seen anything like this. Never seen him look so terrified. Never seen him shake so hard or look so fragile. His trembling hands raised to clench over his ears, and he buried his face in the knees drawn tight to his chest, sobbing something nearly unintelligible into the fabric there. 

“It’s… loud?” she repeated, fear glimmering in her eyes. Anxious green eyes turned to flicker about the silent room before looking back. One of his hands tore away from his ear to clutch over his heart. Tears began to well up in the witch’s eyes as she whimpered, “I- I don’t know- Tony, I need you to tell me what to do- I don’t know!.” 

By the way he flinched inward as she attempted to touch him yet again, it would be fair to guess that would not be happening. She carded through her mind, finding it a panicked muddle of useless information. Fuck. She could stand against Death Eaters without batting an eye. Face dementors, boggarts, and acromantulas and spit blood in their face. But there was no enemy she could find here. No danger she could point a wand at and banish. Just a friend- her best friend- who she found herself utterly unable to help.

“Okay- okay, Anthony? I’m going to go get help. I’ll be right back, I promise!” she spat, guilt ripping through her chest as she took one last at Crowley spilled out on the floor before turning and tearing down the hallway at a full on sprint. She passed the familiar statue of a mounted knight that indicated she was near the potions lab. 

“Anathema!” she cried out, “Anathema, please! Are you here?” 

Her chest was heaving when she slid through the open doorway to the potions lab, eyes wild and panicked. Anathema wandered outside of her office, raising a brow as she took in Valencia’s state. 

“So you _ do _know my name.” 

“Look- please- Crowley- something's wrong, I don’t- I don’t know- he can’t breathe,” she cried, unable to keep up her tough facade. Anathema’s face fell into something much more serious, and she nodded, wasting no time in rushing after the interim professor.

Upon entering the great chamber that housed Dueling Club, Valencia helplessly gestured to their mutual friend, still hidden behind the door. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Anathema sighed, crouching down in front of him. Her voice remained steady, quiet and calm, “Hey. Hey, you. Can you hear me? It’s Anathema. I’m here. We’re here, together. You’re safe. You can breathe. Everything is alright.” 

Heller held in a desperate cry of, ‘are you crazy? Look at him, of course he’s not safe! Nothing is alright!’, but instead found herself staring wildly at Anathema, her lower lip trembling. 

The bespectacled witch barely looked at her, jerking her head to the door, “Go get Azira and bring him to my office.”

“Azira? Shouldn’t I get Madame Pomfrey? He can’t breathe!”

“Yes he- yes you can. We’re going to do some breathing exercises in just a second, okay?” Anathema assured Crowley gently, looking sternly back at the older witch, “he’s having a panic attack. He’ll be okay. I’ll calm him down, but Azira’s best at grounding him. If you would?” 

“I- yeah. Yeah, okay,” Val nodded, eager to help however she could, and rushed toward the library. She’d heard of panic attacks before. Of course she had, but she’d never witnessed one. Crowley certainly had never suffered them. The way the potions master handled it- it seemed she knew just what to do. She even suggested this had happened before.

It was late. Almost curfew, and hardly any students remained in the library. A quick glance around Azira’s office told her he wasn’t there. 

“Fell? You here?” she asked anxiously, rushing down the rows of shelves and completely ignorant of the curious glances of students. While her time there had been short, her current state could already be identified as uncharacteristic.

“Valencia?” came a calm voice from behind her. 

She jumped, turning and finding the familiar blonde wizard, a book in one hand and reading glasses in another, only just having emerged from down an aisle at the sound of her voice.

“My dear girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! In a manner of speaking, of course. Are you well?” 

“No, I found AJ- he was- I didn’t- and he’s- he’s-,” her rambling was accompanied by ridiculous gestures that didn’t serve to provide any clarity. At Azira’s confusion- sliding into something much more panicked-, she resorted to repeating her instructions, “Anathema said he’s having a panic attack and to come get you and to- to take you to her office,”

“Oh dear,” Azira sighed, placing a palm over his chest to calm his heart before reaching to rest the same hand on Valencia’s shoulder, “That must have been quite the shock. Come now, I’m sure he could use some friendly faces.” 

He ushered out the remaining students, scolding them for staring, and locked the door behind them. When well on their way to the dungeons, he withdrew his handkerchief and handed it to the distressed witch. 

“I- I didn’t know what to do,” she sobbed, dabbing at her eyes as he guided her back in the direction she came, urging her that it was alright to take things slow and catch her breath. 

“It seems you did just the right thing. Do you have any idea what caused it?” 

“Nothing! I mean, if there was something, I wasn’t there for it, he told me to take this kid- Thatch? Hutch? Something- to the infirmary after he bashed his head at Dueling Club and-”

“Wait- Crowley was there with you at Dueling Club? Did he, himself, duel?” Azira interrupted, his expression falling from gentle and understanding to something more grave.

“Yes, I asked him to help me.”

“And he- agreed?” Azira asked, frowning. 

Valencia suddenly wondered if her request for Crowley’s aid had violated some sort of agreement between the couple. She’d never been shy to admit her faults, and wouldn’t start now, “Well, no. Now that I think about it, he said no at first, but I… I guess I let my emotions get the best of me. I took it too personally, and then he agreed to it. Why? Does that have something to do with this?” 

For a moment, she saw the wizard wear the same demeanor as he had when defending Crowley against her in the hospital. Were she sure he was capable of it, she might even believe he was angry. A few seconds of silence passed, and he let out a long, steadying exhale, calm restoring itself to his features. “My dear, dueling is very triggering to Crowley. It’s best to allow him to steer clear of it, or to avoid situations in which he might feel pressured to contribute. He’s far too eager to please and does a poor job of advocating for his needs.” 

“Oh… fucking… Hell. This is my fault,” she realized, hands rushing to her face, “He’s going through this awful thing because of _ me.” _

“No. That’s not right,” Azira reassured, “You couldn’t have known. I nearly made the same mistake just last fall. It’s a frightfully unpredictable condition. One that’s been much more delicate very recently.” 

“Tony has… a condition? You mean he’s sick?” 

The wizard had a terrible poker face, she identified quickly. He cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “I’m afraid I’ve gone and put my foot in my mouth. The important thing is that you mustn't feel responsible.” 

“That’s not very comforting, Fell,” she tried to pry, but they’d arrived at Anathema’s office now, and the moment Crowley was in eyesight, the librarian’s attentions were far away from anything she could offer. The animagus was just visible within the confines of the door frame from where Valencia halted in her approach.

She watched as Azira rushed towards Crowley, who was bundled up tight in a blanket nest within a papasan chair near the corner of the office, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. He looked more exhausted than Val had seen him in her life- a distant, hazy expression on his face. His glasses were nowhere in sight. She recalled how upon regaining her lucidity, she’d been surprised at how young he appeared despite all the time that had passed. Now she could see all those years weighted down unforgivingly on his shoulders, crushing him slowly.

Instinct overwhelmed her, urging her feet to move towards the office. He needed her. How many times had she uplifted him before? How many times had she found him, so certain he would never be okay again, and made him smile and laugh? It was her job. She was his protector. His light. His best friend.

Then, she witnessed the strangest thing. Azira approached him, brushing his fingers against Anthony’s gaunt cheek. Crowley looked up, raising his long, slim hand to touch the back of Azira’s. He nodded at something that was said to him, closing his weary eyes and taking a long breath before he opened them again. And he smiled, lips moving as he responded to whatever sentiment Azira had offered. His nose wrinkled and eyes squeezed shut when the blonde leaned down, laying relentless kisses all over the freckled face with reckless abandon. Then, Anathema shifted behind the chair, draping yet another blanket over his head and wrapping it around him along with her arms, squeezing him in a tight embrace and rocking back and forth. She cooed something that drew hearty laughter out of him, his friends’ quick to join in the mix. He rolled his eyes, no doubt drawling out some sarcastic commentary that was undermined by the sappy, adoring grin on his face. 

Moments later, he raised his gaze, certain he’d seen motion out in the potions lab. Must have been a trick of the light. No one was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guyyyyyys!
> 
> I'm so sorry for the delay. I was already experiencing some writer's block, and then this worldwide pandemic ensured I got a healthy dose of depression from social distancing. I'm happy to finally be able to finish a chapter! I missed you people ;<
> 
> I intend to keep myself busy writing at least a chapter a week during quarantine, although I'll occasionally be updating my new GOmens Hospital AU fic, Stitch Me Up. Thanks so much for your patience and support! Stay SAFE and HEALTHY, everyone!
> 
> Big thanks to @Beckers522 for Beta reading~ if you're looking for some good GOmens fic during quarantine, she has a lot of it!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley does his best to resume his more active participation in school life. After receiving unexpected news, he's reminded of what 'family' really is and what it means to him.

A mangled cry sounded from the Quidditch pitch, incentivizing the owls that had comfortably nestled down in the spectator stands to take an abrupt flight. It had come from (and was still coming from) the third year Timothy Twigs after he was sent flying sans broom. 

The boy drew his limbs in and squeezed his green eyes shut, bracing himself for a hard and unforgiving impact. It was only when he heard a soft chorus of snickers from his teammates that he opened his eyes and realized he was somehow floating in mid-air behind the central pitch hoop. His gaze ricocheted around, awe etched into his features. The act gained more confident laughs, and it wasn’t until he heard a nearby voice recite,  _ “Accio broomstick,”  _ that he twisted his head to gaze upwards and found a very entertained herbology professor grinning down at him, grip safely entwined with the back of his golden, black-lined quidditch robes. 

Crowley ensured the boy was safely back on his broomstick before letting go, and he found Adhya Bakshi had beat him to the matter of fixing fourth year Ursula Davies with a questioning gaze. 

“The fuck was that?” Quidditch Captain Adhya Bakshi spat, cynicism obvious by the way she squinted her deep brown eyes and gaped, one scrunched nostril accompanied by the curling of her upper lip. 

“Uh… y’know,” the Beater shifted atop her broom and shrugged, “Just doin’ the drill like Professor Crowley said.”

To be fair, an attempt  _ was  _ made to keep the tickled smirk from his face, but Crowley lost the battle, a snicker sounding from his throat, “It’s a quaffle, Davies. Not a bludger. And you’re supposed to throw it at the pitch, not chuck it at the Keeper.” 

Davies’ complexion pinkened, and she pouted upon turning to find Hatch beside her with a smug expression.

“What?” 

“Just so typical Beater is all,” Hatch snickered.

“Says a Seeker! Thinking you’re so important that we  _ must  _ know your opinion,” Davies sassed, maneuvering her broom to bump into the older boy. 

“Come off it,” Bakshi called out, although her expression remained bored. She leaned over the front of her broomstick, arms crossing lazily over its grip. The team had been comfortably content with their ability after beating Gryffindor in their recent match. Their Captain and Head of House alike had their hands full convincing them they shouldn’t be relaxed enough for trivial teasing and defiance. 

Adhya’s dark brown eyes geared towards Twigs, who stiffened upon finding them, “Note that, kid. You’re still thinkin’ like a Chaser, not a Keeper. Compensating your balance for your reach. Keep usin’ your hands like that an’ you’ll get broken fingers. Your hold is compromised and you’ll fall off like you did. Fine if you fancy broken bones, concussions, brain damage… fun, no? Do yourself a favor; try limiting blocking to your feet for now. Just until you get used to the new posture you’ll need as Keeper.” 

Twigs nodded although his face remained void of all colour. Crowley couldn’t help but cede a small little smile of pride. Adhya had come a long way in her leadership skills. Back when she’d been appointed captain, her critiques had been characterized by a beat red face and raving, unintelligible beratement. Now the seventh year was training her replacement as Keeper, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel that she had struck the perfect balance between inspiring and intimidating.

“You alright, Twiggy?” voiced the soft spoken fifth year Octavia Greengrass, drifting her broom to lay a gentle hand on Twigs’ shoulder. Upon his joining the team as a chaser the year prior, the upperclassman girl had taken him on as something of a younger sibling. 

“Uh… just… head is spinning… which seems dangerous, y’know? With the whole ‘floating a hundred meters off the ground’ business,” Twigs attempted to laugh, although his colour of his complexion was turning less white and decidedly more green. 

“S- sss- seems a good enough spot as any for a water break. Ten minute recess. Get those feet back on the ground, Twigs. Don’t need you falling a second time.” 

The comment seemed to restore Twigs the slightest bit as his eyes brightened. Crowley couldn’t be sure if it was the promise of solid earth beneath him or the teasing that made the difference. Either way, all eight figures descended to the ground, a bit over half of them happily trampling into the locker rooms. The redheaded professor raised an eyebrow as he received an underwhelming ovation from two little first years (not for lack of enthusiasm on their part). 

“That was wicked, Professor! He was all ‘ahhh’ and you were all ‘no you don’t’, and then you just-  _ snatch  _ and summoned that broomstick back just in time! Thought it was gonna EXPLODE and splinters would go rainin’ everywhere!” 

Crowley couldn’t help but be amused as he watched the dramatic reenactment, compliments of one Adam Young. Warlock Dowling jumped into the role of his assistant, doing quite a good job of parodying Twig’s reactions while his Gryffindor friend played the part of Crowley. 

“Here I feel I should be giving you the applause.” 

A proud, toothy grin blossomed across Young’s little face, and he did a deep bow, soon parroted by Dowling beside him. 

“Always happy to entertain,” Adam urged, his expression mirroring the sentiment wholeheartedly. 

Crowley smirked down at the boy, “No fibbin’. You’ve been quite the lit- spe- spec- little spectator, Young. Makes me suspicious. Could be a snake in the grass, albeit those are usually a bit more discrete, eh?”

“Wouldn’t know, though’ you were the expert on serpentine nature, Crowley,” the sandy-haired boy laughed with a bit of cheek.

“That’s ‘Professor’ Crowley,” the man corrected, though the correction was softened a considerable amount by the wildly fond grin on his face, “even still, anything I should be worried about?” 

“Not at all. After all, Hufflepuff already  _ obliterated _ Gryffindor!” Warlock reminded with a smug glance in his friend’s direction. A sharp look from said friend tampered his ego, and replaced the expression with an endearingly contrite one. Pleased with the correction, Adam turned back to their professor. 

“Nah, we’re just getting ready for next year. I’m going to be Gryffindor Seeker!” 

“Really?” Crowley raised a brow over his dark classes, leaning against the base of a ravenclaw-heralded spectator stand and crossing one ankle over the other, “Straight into second year, too. Impressive. Does Professor Device know this?” 

“Oh, yeah. Told her  _ ages  _ ago. Can’ even be accused of cheatin’ anymore, either. Y’know, with the amulet and all.” 

That had both red eyebrows arching in more genuine surprise. Of course, he’d expected Young to breach the confidentiality of his powers amongst his friends, but such admission out in the open brought alarm fast to Crowley’s heart. Before an answer could find his lips, his players were back at his side and eager to continue with practice. 

As if he hadn’t been dealing with enough. Valencia had been avoiding him as staunchly as if he’d had Dragonpox for eight straight days, now. Any action planned by either group of war-mongers (pure-blood elitists or adversaries) was completely unpredictable. His potion was already onto wizarding testing sanctioned by the Ministry’s Development of Potions Department, and he’d been told that if he set foot anywhere near the subjects, the experimentation would be cancelled and he’d be placed on the very bottom of the waiting list. To top it all off, Thelpie had been missing for five days now. 

Although all were plenty enough incentive for grave concern, the latter currently had Crowley in the most considerable state of distress. For nearly twenty years now, the house-elf had been fast to his side. She’d brought him meals morning, noon, and night, kept his room and office clean and organized, and provided the most invaluable guidance he ever could have wished for. It was a daily ritual, and as sure as he could be of anything, the pure-blood had not a shadow of doubt in his heart that she would never disappear without telling him. 

After the first two or three days, he’d been beside himself with worry. Anathema had offered to create a tracking potion, but given that Thelpie had no possessions to contribute to its creation, the offer was rendered impossible. Azira had accompanied him to the Ministry of Magic’s missing persons office. Relaying that the missing person in question was a house-elf had gained him some incredulous glances. Relaying that he was not the owner of said house-elf had them laughing him out of the department with earnest consolation on Azira’s part. He hadn’t slept in days, instead spending his evenings searching areas further and further away from castle grounds. Every day he feared he’d find her tiny mangled body. Every morning he awaited a heartless ransom letter from the Death Eaters. 

Neither came. The only consistency, day by day, were his faithful partner, his best friend who insisted on the visions that Thelpie was fine, and the students. Every morning, he would find eager herbology-enthusiasts awaiting him in the greenhouses. Nearly just as often, his loyal Quidditch players would approach him with stars in their eyes, inquiring if he would be coaching their next practice. More than they ever had before, his little clans of gossip-mongers, nail-enthusiasts, and trouble-makers alike would insist on his presence at their gatherings, hope beating away at their hearts. 

He wondered at the growing intensity of the requests, and then he was wracked by the guilt-infesting realization: since January, his presence had been spotty at best. His disappearance following his mental breakdown had left them afraid and answerless. The month after, he’d only been half present in his desperate escape from his feelings for Azira and his chasing after the illusion of happiness with Emile. Then, when everything seemed like it would perhaps return to normal, he’d disappeared again, and they thought him done for. 

So now, he was more present than ever. He held the expectations high over his own head. He had to. They were his kids, after all. 

It had all played through his head at least a hundred times. It played through yet another as he wandered back to his office after praising his team for a good practice. Twig’s grip was already much improved, if not only from his anxiety about falling again. A similar collision had Hatch clocking his six more than he ever had. Greengrass had let her fellow Chasers in on the secrets of convincingly feigning a throw or pitch. 

He tried to focus on these in place of his worries, as his friends had suggested. A step into his office had reality crashing straight back down. 

“Thelpie!” he cried out, eyes honing in on the only figure he cared to notice before he fell to his knees and took her into his arms. A sense of relief washed over his heart, larger than the most foreboding tidal wave. “Blimey! You always were too bloody good at hide-and-seek!” 

“Master Anthony,” she wavered, a strange bit of hesitance tracing her voice as she patted him reassuringly on the shoulder, “sir has a guest.” 

The wizard pulled away, and confused golden eyes scanned her face above the shades that were slowly sliding down his slightly hooked nose. A throat cleared uncomfortably, prompting Crowley to turn and find a stiff wizard in stiffer robes standing in front of the hearth. He was an old man, balding on top with deep lines of wrinkles ingrained in his face almost as deeply as the disgust he bore at Crowley’s audacity to show affection to a house-elf. It almost could be mistaken that the herbologist had spit at his feet. Ah. One of those. Fun.

“Can I help you?” Crowley droned, a combative disposition immediately taking up occupancy on his features despite the willing nature his words conveyed. He raised to his feet, shifted into his most unfriendly slouch, and mangled his hands deep in his pockets.

“Ah, yes. Excuse the imposition, Master Crawly-”

“Crowley,” the redhead interrupted, face twisted into something a bit more confused when pondering the high title placed before the bastardization of his name.

“Yes. Master Crowley. My name is Victor Parkinson. My family has served the legal needs of yours for nearly two centuries,” he paused to allow an exhibition of recognition. Crowley provided him no more than a raised brow. “Right. Very well. I’m here today to discuss the Crawly estate.” 

“Errrrrr….,” the herbologist started out stupidly, slowly moving behind his desk to take a seat. Snakelike eyes shifted to fix on Thelpie for assistance. Instead, he found her head bowed and hands fidgeting before her. At a loss, he found the attorney’s gaze yet again. Smug little prick, wasn’t he? “That’s n- nnn- of- nuh- none of my business. I was disowned before I even came of age.” 

“On the contrary, Master Cra-  _ Crowley _ , you are the sole heir of- well, all assets.” 

If not for the steady ticking of the clock mounted on the wall, Crowley might have thought that time itself had come to a stand still. He stared vaguely in Parkinson’s general direction, mouth open as if in mid-speech. His brain attempted to flutter through a dozen different thoughts, stopping nearly just as soon as it started each of them. 

“I- no. No. That’s not- you’re confused, mate,” Crowley finally laughed, at loss for how else to react. Thelpie had found her way closer to his side, uncertainty and concern glimmering in her green eyes. “Antonina- that is, the Lady Crawly was the heiress of all that.” 

There was a clear shift in the mood of the room. A deep grimace spread across the attorney’s face, and he shifted in place, clearing his throat again. He looked as if he might jump for the nearest exit, yet obligation held him firmly in place. 

“Oh- I thought- I certainly didn’t mean to be the one to tell you-”

“Tell me wha?” Crowley sneered, turning to Thelpie, who was now right at his side, gazing up at him with an impossibly gentle expression. Her hands were fixed on the wooden arms of his throne-like chair, fingers imperceptibly brushing against his arm, as if she were afraid to comfort him the way she had so many times over his thirty-eight years of life. 

“Sir,” she began quietly, clearly struggling to speak to him as forwardly as she typically did when not in the company of elitist, judgemental, pure-blood pricks. Her massive, bat-like ears hung so low they draped over her impossibly thin shoulders. Her eyes scarcely raised high enough to do so much as graze the bottom rim of Crowley’s glasses. The sensation of rocks in his stomach was immediate. In their blissful years free of his parents, she had never struggled to address him in this manner. “The Help would be very glad if sir were to listen closely, now. Mistress Antonina drank the cure Master Anthony created- so smart, so clever, our Master Anthony- but the mistress’s body was very tired after so many long years of battling. The Help took care of her. The Help did the best she could. The Help told her mistress about her son’s hard work. No other relations have visited the mistress. The mistress called Mr. Parkinson and told him to put it all in sir’s name. The Help struggles to tell Master Anthony, sir, that the mistress has passed, sir.” 

Her head remained bowed before him. For several seconds, Crowley’s heart felt as if it stopped beating. For several seconds, it struggled to find which direction to follow. Thelpie seemed hesitant to inform him which path was right, so, at a great loss, Anthony raised his head and looked at the fidgeting man before him. 

“She’s dead?” he said, stupidly.

“Er. Yes sir. I thought you would know.” 

Another long stretch of silence.

“She left me something?” 

“Everything, on the contrary.” 

“On purpose?” 

“Yes, Master Crowley. She said so very directly.” 

Crowley’s gaze dropped to the fireplace behind the opposing wizard. Some time after, Parkinson seemed to decide he wasn’t coming back from whatever mental journey he had taken.

“Right. Her will states you are the sole heir of Crawly manor and all that resides within it, the summer home in Provence, the Crawly vault within Gringott’s and its contents, all stocks, all Crawly titles and claims, and one house-elf called ‘The Help’,” he read aloud from a small roll of parchment before setting it before Crowley, “I’m afraid that’s an extremely simplified summary, you can find all the details here.” 

The herbologist inhaled deeply through his nose, looking around at his office. His things. His home. His gaze landed on the small creature currently avoiding his gaze. His guardian. 

“What do I… what do I do with this?” 

“I couldn’t tell you, Master Crowley. Whatever you’d like, although I am bound to suggest that such desires remain within the boundaries set by the law. There is the small matter of… erm… your mother’s remains,” the lawyer phrased, attempting to remain delicate.

Crowley found himself staring again before releasing a series of snorts and scoffs, shrugging and shaking his head, “I bloody well don’t know! Haven’t seen the wretch of a woman in twenty years! Throw her in the ocean, burn her, throw her a funeral if it pleases you, just don’t expect anyone to show up.” 

“So cremation then,” the man said, unperturbed by the outburst, “Would you like her remains?”

“Wh- Fuck no!” 

“Right. Then I’ll be in contact with you, Master Crowley.” 

Yellow eyes followed the man’s exit, and remained on the door after it closed. The sound of it shutting was echoing in his head as if in a reverberation chamber. His gaze moved slowly at first, fixing on the paper. Surely that had been some ridiculous hallucination?

Several readings of the parchment later, it became apparent that it wasn’t a hallucination at all. He didn’t know what to do with this. Hadn’t the slightest idea. His mind was racing, anxiety bleeding in on the edges and threatening to erase anything legible in the middle like it had so many times. 

Weren’t people usually happy when they became rich? Shouldn’t he be planning all the fancy restaurants he could now afford to take Azira to? Excited that he could buy Anathema that scrying equipment she’d been drooling over? Why wasn’t he writing his tailor, excitedly placing orders for the most expensive and cutting-edge styles of the season? What was he supposed to do?

Then a tiny, withered hand covered his. Slowly, he turned to look at it, and traced his gaze up the arm attached until it met the familiar face of caring and comfort he knew. Thelpie looked just as lost as he did. But as always, she made him feel just a little bit found. The situation at large was still an unfathomable mystery, but for right now, here in this moment- he knew what to do. 

“Can... ,” he started, and Thelpie’s ears twitched upward at the sound of his shaking voice, “Can you wait here, for just a moment?” 

“Of course, sir,” she instinctively voiced before her perceptive green eyes even began their journey to search every inch of his face. “The Help will wait here, sir.”

Although the sluggish nod he offered indicated understanding, any awareness was absent from the hazy whirring of Crowley’s mind. When some semblance of self-consciousness returned, he found himself elbow deep in a trunk full of silk and velvet garments. 

_ Too tacky, that’s not Thelpie at all. There’s this? No, way overstated. She deserves something elegant- she won’t want something elegant. That? No, not that, that doesn’t mean anything at all to you. None of these should mean anything. You should be getting rid of them all anyway. That’s not- that’s not the point right now. Let her pick? No. No no that’s not right. She’s earned something meaningful. Something import- _

The inner chattering fell silent as Crowley’s fingertips brushed against the familiar silky threading of an embroidering. His long digits traced down the pattern, crossing over a thin mesh and running over woven silk until finding the familiar smoothness of individual fringed strands at the end of the garment. 

He palmed at the fabric, taking care not to tear at it with his painted green nails, and tugged it free from the chest. With slow, mindful movements, he gripped one end in one fist and ran his fingers down to the other, holding it high in front of himself and running his eyes over the detailed hand-stitching of wax palm leaves and Christmas orchids, mindfully arranged to brush over the shoulders and dip down the spine of the slightly sheer black ocean of the shawl’s fabric. 

_ “Stop flinching!” demanded an irritated voice. _

_ “W- we - well ssssss-stop grabbing muh- my face so hard! Gonna s- sssssss- stab my bloody eye out with that thing!”  _

_ “With a brush? AJ? A fluffy little brush? Hey! No peeking!”  _

_ The attempt to glance over a shoulder and at the mirror really hadn’t come across all too casually. It had, however, earned Crawly a playful smack to the forehead. _

_ “Oy!”  _

_ “Be patient. We’re almost finished. Just lipstick left, which colour do you like best?” _

_ Three metal tubes were held up in the air, and golden eyes passed over each of them as if they were capable of biting faces off before the gaze finally raised unsurely to meet green.  _

_ “Y- yo- you’re sss-sure I won’t look ridiculousss?” _

_ “Would I really let you go walkin’ about looking ridiculous?” Valencia gave a sharp grin. _

_ The unsureness didn’t dissipate, but the bossier of the two 14-year-olds failed to be discouraged. She capped two tubes and reached behind her friend to place them on the vanity, free hand grasping the pointed chin to thwart another attempt at glancing in the mirror.  _

_ “Dark red, then. That’s your colour.”  _

_ “It is?” _

_ “It is. Go like this,” Valencia demanded before opening her mouth to pull her lips taut. Crawly only got half-way to a cheeky grin before receiving another forehead swatting. “Come on, then! We haven’t got all night!”  _

_ Well, if it was for expediency’s sake, then by all means. Crawly submitted to mirroring the ridiculous expression, watching Valencia’s focused gaze as she applied the colour. She pulled back when completed, grinning happily and plucking a tissue from behind the longer figure.  _

_ “Okay and then do this,” she commanded, drawing her lips inward over her teeth and closing them dryly around the tissue before handing it to her friend. Crawly obliged, wondering what the point of putting the lipstick on was just to get it all over a tissue. It must not have disturbed the ensemble all too badly, because Valencia looked absolutely thrilled with her handiwork. “Oh, AJ! You’re so pretty! Okay, turn around! … oh, go on! I promise, you look amazing. Come on.”  _

_ Crawly didn’t move, paralyzed with fear. Stubborn and impatient as ever, Valencia leaned down, grabbing the legs of the stool and dragging it- along with Crawly- to about-face towards the mirror. Quivering lungs were left wanting as all air escaped them. At last, they sounded. A soft, nearly imperceptible noise escaped freshly painted lips. _

_ “Oh.”  _

_ “Oh?” _

_ “I llll- loo- look like…”  _

_ “Look like what.”  _

_ A shaking breath went in and out, and serpentine eyes struggled to remain trained on the reflection as they grew watery. At long last, they turned to Valencia. The voice came out a mere whimper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the realization into pieces. _

_ “Like a girl.”  _

_ “Oh, AJ,” Valencia laughed, grabbing a tissue to dab below golden eyes before the makeup there was ruined. Her own makeup was in a very similar danger, green eyes growing undoubtedly watery, however set she was on playing it off, “That’s because you are a girl, dummy.”  _

_ Crowley felt stupid and silly when an unrangleable smile crossed her face, and she laughed. Her heart felt so light. Had it ever felt this light?  _

_ “So you like it then?” Valencia asked. _

_ Unable to squeeze out an answer for fear of sobbing, she nodded ferociously, laughing again as her dearest friend threw her arms around her.  _

_ “Chicas, ¡Daos prisa, vais a llegar tarde!” _

_ Crawly nearly jumped out of her skin as the bedroom door slammed open, and Cordelia came rushing in with her demanding shouts. Her march was stopped short as she took in the scene. No attempt was made to hide the slow glide of her gaze down and back up Crawly’s figure. She never smiled, no matter how funny or kind she was. The redhead, while staying here every school break, had still not managed to learn to read her expressions. Certainly, the way the corner of her mouth tugged downwards couldn’t be a good thing? _

_ The pale teen turned nearly as white as a ghost, the colour on her face doing nothing to stop the process. She held her breath. Her heartbeat rocketed in her ears. Any fear that had left her a moment ago about being seen was back full-force now.  _

_ “Absolutely not. You are not going out like that. Come with me.”  _

_ It took all the power in Crawly’s gangly, tall body not to let a sob rip from her chest. An all too familiar fear overcame her as Cordelia snatched her boney wrist and all but dragged her from the room.  _

_ Like that, the joy and catharsis was gone. This had been stupid. What had they been thinking? She couldn’t just be a girl whenever she chose to. A black slip dress and some makeup didn’t change the reality of the situation. Who did she think she was?  _

_ “¡Mamá, por favor! ¡Es-ess-espere! I ca-cah-can explain! Y-yo uh- uh! Explique!” she finally whimpered out, cursing her pitifully limited and broken Spanish.  _

_ Cordelia scoffed without missing a beat, "Por favor. Un atuendo tan simple como ese es imperdonable." _

_ Unforgivable? What was unforgivable? Crawly didn’t understand!  _

_ What was going to happen? Would she be stripped and beaten? Locked in a closet? Starved? Tied to a chair, mocked, and told how disgusting she was?  _

_ No. No no. This was Cordelia. Cordelia had never done those things. The Heller household has always been safe. They didn’t do things like that here. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.  _

_ Would she? _

_ Crawly took her wrist back the moment it was released, cradling it in her other hand and over her racing heart. Panicked golden eyes looked about in confusion as she found herself standing at the mouth of Cordelia’s closet. She whipped her head around to find Valencia, whose disposition defied every single one the feelings eating Crawly alive. The shorter girl snorted and rolled her eyes as if to say ‘can you believe this?’ before boredly leaning herself against the doorframe and opting to observe her crazy mother.  _

_ Lacking any other option, Crawly resigned to do the same, anxiously watching as Cordelia paced back and forth, appraising different articles of clothing while looking back and forth from the teen’s form. She ranted as she went, far too fast for the Brit to have any hope of comprehending or translating.  _

_ "No puedes salir llevando eso. Oh, pero eres demasiado alta para usar la ropa de Valencia, ¿verdad? También eres demasiado alta para usar la mía. Aun así, deberíamos vestirte mejor. Y esas botas... Son espantosas. Supongo que es algo que ya no podemos remediar. Quédate aquí. Déjame que busque algo para ti." _

_ Just as the young redhead was about ready to collapse to the floor in tears and rub the makeup off the best she could, Cordelia appeared before her, brandishing a long, beautiful length of fabric.  _

_ “You like.” While it didn’t sound like a question, Crawly had spent long enough in the household to surmise it had been one. She took a moment to gaze at the article in question. Vintage, she was certain. Handcrafted with intricate embroidery. Priceless- it had to be. She raised a hand to touch at the fringe lining it, and her fingertips tingled with residual magic. Whatever this was, it was old. Very old.  _

_ “S- ssssss- sí?”  _

_ Evidently, that was the correct answer, as Cordelia reached up to toss it over her shoulders with a flourish. She fussed for a moment, adjusting the shawl, and stepped back. Crawly knew it’d been a stressful few minutes, and concluded that the scant smile on Cordelia’s face was definitely due to some sort of stress-induced delirium.  _

_ “Oh, mija,” the woman sighed, voice underlaced with some emotion Crawly didn’t understand, but made her want to cry, anyhow. _

_ “What a beautiful young woman.”  _

_ Now she definitely wanted to cry. Idle fingers raised to brush over her own collar bones, growing familiar with the silky strands that made up the embroidery. How many shoulders had this garment draped? How many women had it shielded?  _

_ “Mmm- Mm- Mamá… es-esss- es espectacular…”  _

_ “¿Sí? I got it for my quince. It is given from generation to generation of mother and daughter. You feel it?”  _

_ Crawly nodded meekly, staring in awe as she admired the elaborate stitching at the edges before the fringe began. She could feel Cordelia’s deep brown eyes on her but found herself far too entranced in the tangible history buzzing through the pads of her fingers to tear her own gaze away. The woman who had so warmly welcomed her into her home hummed gently. Thoughtfully. _

_ “I give it to you now, I think. If Valencia doesn’t have any problem.”  _

_ That had proved sufficient enough shock to draw Crawly’s attention. She gaped at Cordelia, then at Valencia. Surely, she would protest? It was inappropriate to give such a precious family heirloom to an outsider, no matter how beloved. Sacrilegious, even.  _

_ But Valencia was grinning. She pressed her hip to the doorframe to shove herself off of it, meandering towards her friend and running a hand over her shoulder to examine the item. A performative sigh escaped her lips.  _

_ “I can’t complain any more than I’m sure Tía Victoria did when you got it. Anthonia’s the eldest daughter, anyway. I guess it’s only fair.”  _

_ No tissues were available to diminish the flood of tears, now.  _

_ Anthonia. She was Anthonia. That was her name. She was a girl- no, a woman. She had a family, and they loved her.  _

_ That was this strange feeling welling up inside. So unfamiliar. So unknown. So wonderful and so strange.  _

_ Acceptance. Belonging.  _

Crowley turned the fabric over in his hand, minding to keep his touch delicate, as if cradling a glass object and not a piece of cloth. He leaned back against the door-frame of the closet where he’d banished the trunk of clothing. As if they were garbage unbefitting of his sight. How dare he. 

Those clothes meant things- said things. Some of them said, “I am warm”. Some said, “I am important.” Some said, “I am glamorous.” Some said, “I don’t take myself too seriously”. Some said, “I’m more than you bargained for.” And some even said, “I’m a slut.” 

But this one. This one said, “I’m accepted. I belong.” 

He raised to his feet, reminding himself how to walk again as he made his way to the house elf in his office. Thelpie made out some sound likening a squeak as instead of returning to his office chair, as expected, Crowley opted to sit cross-legged on the floor before her. 

“Thelpie, I uh… ,” he swallowed, his saliva feeling thick in his throat, “I want you to have this.” 

Massive green eyes trailed down to the fabric, then back to his face. Then they went down again, but this time, the rest of her face twisted with it in a conveyance of a myriad of feelings: hurt, anger, betrayal, confusion. 

He didn’t do this right. Fuck. He didn’t do this right at all. 

“The Help has raised Master Anthony since he was a baby,” she started, braving through her wavering voice with watery, defiant eyes and a set jaw. 

“Yes- yes you have and-” 

“The Help has loved Master Anthony like a son! She kept him safe!” 

“Yes-” 

“She watched him be taken away to a happier life!” 

“Yes, I-” 

“She waits years, never knowing if she will be reunited with him!”   
  
“Ye-”

“And Master Anthony sends her away?” 

“No!” 

“He forsakes her?” 

“No, Thelpie! I- listen, please!” he pleaded. 

The desperate, injured edge of his voice proved enough to get her attention. She never had been any good at ignoring his pain. The silence seemed as much permission as the wizard would get to say his piece. 

“You have. You’ve r- reh- raised me and loved me and protected me like I was your own. I don’t… don’t want to know how many beatings you’ve taken for me. That wre- wo- eh, wretched woman- sh- shh- she- Thelpie, in every way that matters,  _ you  _ were my mum more than she  _ ever  _ was. I know this seems like a slight but it’s just-,” he paused, scrubbing his face with his hands for a long moment and pacing his breaths before braving a look at her with teary amber eyes. “Thelpie. If you’re going to be in my life and guide me and take care of me… I need- I  _ need  _ to know that it’s because you want to be here. Because you  _ choose  _ to be here, as part of my family. Du- d- hheh- do you? Do you want to stay? W- ww- wo -wuh- would you care about me if you had the choice, unbound by duty? I don’t want- I don’t want to be like them! I won’t! I  _ won’t  _ be like them!” 

His head bowed closer to the floor, and he gasped to withhold a sob, fingers raising to pinch his nose. His throat felt so tight he was afraid it might snap from the effort it took to keep from openly bawling.

After what felt like an eternity of remaining crumpled to the floor, the fabric in his hand was slowly slipped away. Impossibly thin arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close, and his head bumped against a shoulder that was shockingly sturdy for its small stature. A long, thin-fingered hand brushed through his hair, and the tension was eased. His strangled whimpers quieted. His breathing evened. 

Against all reason or logic, he felt safe. 

“Thelpie would,” was muttered after a time.

“Thelpie does.”

He’d never heard the small voice sound so certain. 

* * *

Crowley felt aimless. Not just in his wandering- which was absolutely lacking in any sense of direction, but in his thoughts. In his feelings. Soon enough, he resorted to re-aiming all relevant senses to that which they knew best. Home. To Azira. 

This didn’t occur to him until he found himself strolling through the tall aisles of books. Countless times he’d trailed through them after the librarian like a cat running after its master. Countless times he’d slithered around the blonde as he would so patiently maneuver around him, reshelving books. Only now did his gaze train on title after title, and realize the ridiculous man-  _ his  _ ridiculous man- had these books arranged in absolutely  _ no _ ascertainable order. Not by title or by author. Maddening. 

Whatever feelings were rumbling around in Crowley’s (unadmittedly) massive heart, they were strongly surged by a deep love for his angel. 

Surely, some vague consciousness took in the fact that students occasionally were speaking to him, but Crowley didn’t- or couldn’t- pay mind. His attention remained fixed on the endless volumes. Ancient to modern tomes folded in leather or cardboard. The smell of old parchment and book glue heavy in the air. He was stuck in some kind of hypnosis.

“Darling, can you hear me?” 

Crowley snapped to attention, surprised and bewildered to find himself standing near the door of Azira’s office. How’d he get in here? He looked around himself. The door. That seemed a safe bet. That was probably how he’d managed it. 

The office looked the same as ever, but Crowley noticed a dozen things for the first time. The books on these shelves were colour coded (what kind of system was that?), but at least half of them were stacked horizontally. The plant he’d given Azira just before the Yule Ball was sitting happily on a side table near the window. He’d forgotten all about that. There were pictures- muggle pictures- about, from all the years Azira had been missing from the wizarding world. Crowley had never looked at them. How had he never looked at them? 

“Anthony?” 

“Yeah.” Fuck! His voice sounded so loud! So distorted. Why was it so loud? 

His eyes flickered about, finding Anathema curled on an armchair and looking at him with a raised brow. He kept on until finding concerned blue skies opened up in his direction. 

“Yeah, love. Sorry. Just. Uh. Brain’s doin’... stuff.”

He sniffed, crouching down to peer at a picture of an early-30-something Azira with a giddy, precious grin on his face, arm-in-arm with some other gents. Dancing, maybe? 

“Doing ‘stuff’?” Anathema echoed. 

“Yeah, uh…. Uh… it’s… erm…,” he snapped several times over and pointed at the witch so intently observing him, “thinking! That’s it. Just got s- ssss- eh, something stuck in there like fuckin’ gum on a shoe. Can’t quite wrap my mind around it. Can’t scrape it off either. Making me loony.” 

“Oh?” Azira asked, exchanging looks with Anathema behind Crowley’s back. 

‘Should I be concerned?’ his look said.

‘Yeah, his aura’s bonkers right now,’ hers retorted. He seemed to comprehend.

“Care to share, dearest?” 

“Oh, uh,” Crowley mumbled, turning to throw a glance at Aziraphale. He raised his hand, almost jarred when it met the rim of his glasses even though that’s what he’d intended. “Ding dong, the witch is dead?” 

He turned back to the task at hand. Surely, all this stuff couldn’t have always been here?

“Which witch?” Anathema asked. 

“The wicked witch,” he humored, ducking again to examine another photo pinned under one of the moving portraits Azira had also apparently been cursed with. This one was of early-20’s Azira. Oh, he was so bloody cute. All cheeks and youth and curls.Too skinny, though. Crowley wanted to feed him. He was huddled together with his mother and aunts in front of an Italian fountain. Rome? 

“I can think of several of those,” Azira mentioned, minding to keep his tone patient, “which one are you thinking of?” 

“Antonina.”

His friends delivered blank looks to the back of his head. All at once, Anathema’s brightened, and she sat up straighter, pivoting her dark eyes between Azira and Crowley. 

“Antonina Crawly? Your mother? Crowley, your mother is dead?” 

“Mmmmm.” 

Crowley only conveyed minor confusion as he found himself being pulled toward the middle of the room, looking down to find Azira’s well-manicured hand curled gently around his upper arm. Somehow, it felt like he was watching it from afar, like it wasn’t really his arm being held. 

“Will you sit down, my dear?”

“Oh- uh. Sure,” Crowley mumbled, not finding it in himself to sound more committed. Still, he sat. 

Azira was facing him, seated beside him on the sofa. His arm was- oh, it was running up and down his back. Crowley didn’t feel it, not really. He turned his head, finding Anathema leaned in from her arm chair on his other side, forearms rested on her knees and face neutral. Still, her ‘analysis eyes’ were in action. 

“You just found this out?” she asked. 

“Just uh… yeah. Yeah. Just now.” 

“How do you feel?” Azira asked in uncertainty. One of his broad hands intertwined with one of Crowley’s spindly own, and it earned a look of confusion. 

He looked so worried. He was  _ acting  _ worried. As if Crowley was acting strangely. Was he? Was he acting strangely? 

“Uh… I don’t know,” he said, honestly, “I mean- I mean… it’s good, isn’t it? She tried to strangle me, once. I had a dream about it last night. I’m still afraid of her. Even after all these years. I should be… should be happy that she’s gone, yeah?” 

It took him a moment to realize Azira’s free hand had moved from his back to push the hair out of his face. Usually that felt nice. He didn’t notice it now. Not really. 

“I don’t believe this situation has any predetermined expectations, Crowley,” Azira muttered softly, “You should feel however you’re so inclined.” 

“Oh,” Crowley said. 

There was silence, for a time. Anathema was holding his other hand. He wondered when that had happened. 

“I’m confused,” he realized aloud.

“That’s alright,” Anathema decided for him. One of her fingertips ran along the space between his thumb and forefinger. He felt it a little. It was nice. Soothing. 

“Are you confused about how it happened?” she voiced after a time. He wasn’t sure how long, but it had been long enough to jar him a bit.

“That? Oh, no. Mmmm- mu- it- mm- eugh, my cure worked. She woke up. Her body was tired. Gave out after a few days, I guess. That’s why Thelpie was gone. Was… summoned, by her true master.” 

There was quiet again, for a time. His brow furrowed, his face contorted. It wasn’t until Azira’s thumb was brushing his cheek and soothing words were being muttered against his temple that he realized he was crying. 

“She left me everything.” 

“.... what was that, my dear?” 

Oh, he asked so nicely.

“Everything. The manor. The estate. Thelpie. The fortune. The… stocks? What stocks? I don’t even know. It’s all just paper. No words. No explanation. No ‘sorry, didn’t mean it when i said you were garbage that I’d love to see burn alive’, just. Paper.”

They gave him space on that. If he needed it. He didn’t know if he did. Wasn’t sure. Wasn’t in a place to question it. 

Then, Azira asked, so quietly, so sweetly, “And that’s why you’re confused.” 

He nodded, slowly, at first, and then he was being held tight, letting out a strangled sob into Azira’s shoulder. 

“What kind of a sick fucking joke is that?” he gasped and keened. 

And it all came crashing down. The reality. The time that had krept so slowly before. The merciless confusion and cacophony of emotion. He felt every bit of it. 

“I was fine on my own! I didn’t ask for it! Why would she do that?Did I matter to her, somehow? Was she sorry for how she treated me? Did she want to play along with the cruelness of it all? Did she really believe I was so fucking wretched? Did she secretly want me all along? Did she… did she love me? Why does it matter? Why do I care?  _ Why  _ do I care? Why do I…. Why… ” 

He disintegrated into tears. He wasn’t floating away, not yet. Azira held him fast to earth. Soon, he realized Anathema was pressed to his back. The door was shut. He was wrapped in a tangle of limbs. A cocoon of safety and caring. He didn’t need to know. It was okay to be confused. He didn’t need to have it together. They had him. Nothing else mattered.

One of his arms wrapped loosely around Azira, hand clutching weakly at the back of his shoulder. The other folded over the arm Anathema had tucked around his waist. His fingers wove through hers. They sat there for a time. He wasn’t sure how long. No one was counting the seconds or the minutes. No one was waiting for it to end. 

At some point, he sniffled, taking his hands away to scrub at his face, and the death hold on him loosened from both directions. Azira fussed over him still, and Crowley had no complaints for the gentle petting and kisses he received. He rocked slowly with the pattern of circles Anathema rubbed into his back with a gentle hand. He felt tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. Like he could sleep for a century. 

“I’m… I’m gonna te- ta- take a walk I think,” he said at last. 

“Okay,” the witch agreed, “do you want company?” 

He thought about it for a time. After thorough consideration, he shook his head. 

“No. I think it’s an ‘alone’ kind of walk.” 

“Well, that’s alright,” Azira confirmed, cupping his hand around the back of Crowley’s neck, “We’ll see you at dinner then?” 

“Mmmmm,” Crowley confirmed, sniffing and rubbing yet again at his blood-shocked eyes. A short kiss was delivered to Azira’s palm as he pulled it away. He rose to his feet and meandered to the door before fixing his fingers around the handle. Before he found the strength to turn it, he turned back to his friends, casting them a pathetic attempt at a grateful smile. They smiled lovingly back. He spared a moment to think about his luck before opening the door. 

* * *

They didn’t see him at dinner. Or the hour after. Or the hour after that. By the time the news had reached Valencia, they were on the verge of a desperate, panic-fueled full-grounds search. 

She’d find him, she assuaged, no need to call aurors to action just yet. 

As she sat on the Muggle bus after her tenth casting of  _ obliviate  _ (Muggles were as unhelpful as they were obnoxious), Valencia wanted to be cross. She looked for any perceivable way that she could be. 

She didn’t find it.

How could she, when she’d done all but worn a robe saying “Crowley, stay the fuck away from me” to keep him from talking to her? Of course he hadn’t come to her. Of course he hadn’t expected her to comfort him. 

The death of Antonina Crawly- fuck, if that hadn’t been on the top of her wish list. A fantasy she had gone over time and time again- except in her mind it had been a murder, and she had been the murderess. If she had it in her power, she’d hunt the bitch down, revive her, and kill her all over again. Dying in her sleep in a hospital bed was far too merciful a death for that vile excuse of a woman.

The witch sighed, leaning her forehead against the glass of the bus and watching the sunset on the Ireland horizon. The hues were gold and orange with pink outlines on the lazy drifting clouds uppermost of the scenery. As the vehicle came to a halt, the brakes sounded a loud screech. Valencia stood, manicured fingers grasping the bar overhead. She made her way to the front of the bus, throwing a grin at a very confused driver who was unsure where they were or why he was stopping. 

The horrendous bit of Muggle machinery drove away, and the witch took a deep breath of the countryside air, green eyes sliding their gaze upwards towards the smoke signals she was sure marked her way through the woods. 

The smell grew stronger and the surrounding area smokier as she passed through fields, dodged feral sheep, and hopped numerous fences. At last, a road began to appear before her, in the kind of way only magic could conceal. Vast, beautiful grounds appeared, and on the horizon, a great castle, burning to the ground. The uppermost levels- perhaps three floors originally- had burnt down. The ground floor was crumbling now. As she came closer, the crackling was uproarious. Great beams and bricks snapped and crumbled under their own weight, sending hoards of tiny glimmering sparks rocketing through the air. On the bottom-most step of the great stepped entry, a lean figure sat, covered in soot and ash, a cigarette clamped in his mouth and an elaborate, expensive cape draped over his shoulders. She assumed it was a trophy he’d nipped before burning the wretched place down along with everything in it. 

If he’d been paying any attention at all, Crowley had seen her gradual approach over the last ten minutes. It was impossible to tell behind those blasted glasses. She used to be able to read his face around them as clear as day. He was more practiced now. Better at hiding. She was worse at seeking. 

Still, she spread her arms out wide, making a show of glancing over the expanse of the roaring fire. 

“Wooooooooooow! Loooooove what you’ve done with the place!” she mused. 

The corner of his mouth quirked. 

“Y’know I’m growing fonder of it by the minute, meself.” 

Her mouth opened, and she very nearly remarked again on his amazingly clear and certain speech. He didn’t need that reminder, she told herself. He didn’t need to be told how much he’d changed. How different things were now. 

“Mind if I have a seat?” 

He twisted his arm out in a performative sweep, as if to say ‘pick a chair, any chair’. She sat a few steps above him, amazed at how hot the fire felt. He loved that heat, she bet. Her lips parted again, to ask for a cig, but she found one extended back towards her without Crowley’s gaze doing the same. She took it, humbled, and took a short stroll up the steps to light it on the flames. She took a moment to marvel, as the fire caught the ground floor and dungeons and a swirl of blue spirits began to rise to the heavens, gasping and crying out wails of relief and shouts of freedom. Tears pricked her eyes, and she sucked on the cigarette for a moment before making her way back down the steps to the figure at the feet of them. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No need.” 

She thought a bit harder. Clearly that wasn’t the right thing to say. 

“I talked to Mum and Dad.” 

“Oh?” 

“They told me… about… about what happened to you in January, and about the.. er… the episodes.” 

“Oh.” 

“I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to. It’s embarrassing.” 

“No! No, it’s… it’s real. And it’s sad. But it’s warranted, AJ. I was so... so wrapped up in my perception of things. I didn’t think about yours. I didn’t think about how brave you were running into that battle. I didn’t think about how you’d never been a fighter. You didn’t like it, not like me. I didn’t think about how afraid you must have felt, or what it was like when you found me. And I didn’t think- I didn’t… I couldn’t… I can’t imagine. If I’d lost you that way. Lost you slowly, bit by bit over twenty fucking years I-”

“Yeah.” 

Her eyes grew watery, and she looked down at her red heels, pivoting back and forth on the chipped stone of the stair. She couldn’t fix this, could she? 

“I thought you were angry,” he said, two cigarettes later. She was surprised at it, as if it’d been the sound of a bell and she was a kid out in the yard, waiting for dinner. 

“Angry at you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“For what?” 

“For… going on. Living my life. Making friends. Being happy. Finding my passion. Traveling. Falling in love.” 

“Oh, no,” she sighed, heart aching deep in her chest, “no…. I mean- yes. I was angry. But not at you.” 

“At who?” 

“No one. Not really. I was just… angry. In general. Angry that… that I missed it. I missed your whole life. I was supposed to be there.” 

A long silence passed. Crowley scooted up the three steps to be level with her, and closer, so they were hip to hip. 

“I’m angry, too.” 

Valencia smiled, weakly. Her pointed fingertips raised to pluck his glasses off his face, and her catlike green eyes searched his golden serpentine pair. He didn’t do so much as flinch, eyes unwaveringly searching into hers. 

“You haven’t missed it. Not really. There’s a lot left- at least I think. I hope.” 

Her smile broadened. She believed it.

“Tell me about Device.” 

He took a long inhale, looking into the horizon and resting his chin on a palm. 

“She’s tough, but sw- sww- ssss- sweet. Judgemental, but fair. Protective. A seer. Astute, and reads me for filth all too well. But she’s funny and quick and… y’know. Family. Love her, yeah?” 

“Hmm,” she said. It cut, sure, but what could she do? It was the truth. She acknowledged it, she felt it, absorbed it, and she pushed forth, “What happened with Neville?” 

“Nothing,” he said, and she sensed the answer was within that sad refrain. ‘Nothing’. That had been his heartbreak. 

“Were you sad a long time after?” 

He shrugged, raising his hand to take another contemplative inhale of his cigarette. 

“Sad, yes. But free. I discovered so much. Discovered myself. Found my job.” 

She hummed in recognition, attempting to imagine that. 

“Did you love anyone else, before Fell?” 

“There was only ever Azira Fell.”

She smiled, feeling an aching fondness in her heart, and she delivered a gentle kick to his boot-clad foot. 

“You know what I mean.” 

He looked at her again, something between a smug smile and an anxious frown tugging at his lips. 

“Just casual fucks, really. Lots and lots. Bit of a whore, me.”

“Some things never change,” she teased, earning a laugh.

He sighed, stamping out the butt of the smoke. 

“I was just fine on my own. Nice and happy with my plants and my research and my students and my friends. One romance. Wasn’t very long. He was a wanker.” 

“Yeah? Who’s it?”

“Hmm.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Depends, does this whole shit-show win me a get-out-of-jail-free card?” 

She smiled, “I guess so.” 

“I fucked your brother.” 

“Manny?” she gasped, appalled. 

“ _ FUCK _ , no! You fucking sicko! No!  _ God- Sat- Somebody  _ no! Emiliano- you promised,” he was quick to remind, pointing his cigarette at her. 

“Ew. Bet Mum was thrilled.”

“While it lasted, yeah. Two days into dating and she’s going on about marriage and me being a proper Heller. Legal-like.” 

“That’s what you get. Not surprised to learn he was a wanker.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley scoffed.

“Shall I beat him up?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he smirked, raising a brow and glancing towards her. 

“Shove dirt in his mouth?”

“He deserves it.”

“What’d he do?”

“Another time, maybe,” Crowley dismissed. 

That couldn’t possibly bode well. She doubted he’d tell her. That tone meant ‘I’ve tucked it away in a corner, let it die there’. 

“You’re happy with Fell.”

“Oh, yes. He’s all I could ever want.” 

“He knows you?”

“Yes.” 

“He takes care of you?”

“Oh, yes.” 

“How’s the sex? Can he keep up?”

“Mate-,” he gave a devilish grin, “You can’t imagine. He’s an insatiable, hedonistic freak, and I’ll happily spend every day trying to satiate him anyway.” 

“Seriously?” she asked, impressed.

“Oh, yeah.”

She grinned back, ceding a laugh, “Good. I’m glad you’re happy. Surprised you went through all that- y’know, mental breakdown business- with him minding you.”

He frowned.

“Oh. Uh. No. No, he didn’t- I mean- fuck, that’s not fair to him. Maybe he loved me, then. He did what he thought was best. But he didn’t tell me. He wouldn’t- I wasn’t- I didn’t deserve-,” he sighed, “No, we’ve only been together since… well, I suppose since you saved us from that Death Eater scrape.”

Her eyebrows shot upwards, and her hand fluttered over her heart, “You’ve only been dating- fuck? Less than a month? The way you get on I could have sworn I heard wedding bells ringing.” 

“Oh, I dunno... ,” he mumbled, a wild blush rising beneath the freckles and soot spattering his face while he kicked at the stone beneath his feet, “Hard to reign it in. Y’know. Loved him since forever.” 

“I know,” she confirmed with a smile. Even so, she thought, she was right. Fell was clever. He’d be quick enough to clue in on the fact that he was dating the most promising, faithful, eager-to-please person in the world, and he’d be right to lock that shit down.

The pair sat side by side, watching the sun go down. Only a ring of orange hovered above the trees now. They were otherwise illuminated by the raging fire behind them and the light blue shocks of ghosts rising to freedom. 

“How do you feel? About all… y’know, this?” 

“It’s bullshit,” he hissed in a manner so cold she got gooseflesh. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “F- ffff-  _ fuck  _ them.”

“Fuck them.” 

Another long silence.

“You know… for so long I felt that… that because they made me, it meant that I was like them. But it’s just not true. I love my kids. I do. I love my friends. I love my boyfriend. I love my life. My research. My plants. Those people? They didn’t love anything.” 

“And nothing loved them back.”

“I did,” he admitted, voice breaking, a bit. 

Clearly, the admission had been ripped from him. It took several moments for him to come round it. When he did, and he turned to her, there were tears there, unwanted and honest.

“Val, I tried. But, didn’t I deserve more? I know i’m not the best person. I’m not good. I’m not honest. I’m not kind. But I tried. I was just a kid. I deserved- deserved people who loved me anyway. Unconditionally. People who wanted me and appreciated me. I deserved a  _ family.” _

“You did,” she agreed, her composure remaining completely calm despite his panic, “And you found one.”

His mouth fell slack, and he stared at her. It was a long look- fragile and open. It took time. It took thought. She could see the gears turning, but eventually, he smiled. She took a moment to calculate- to sense and weigh and appreciate the payoff that patience could earn. She’d never known that, before.

Crowley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His face turned back to the skyline, all darkness now with just a hint of cyan on the horizon, and tipped his head onto her shoulder. She scooted closer, and leaned her head onto his, in turn. His shampoo was different, she could tell, but he smelled the same. Still him. Or her. Just- them. Still AJ. 

“I did,” he sounded, hand clasping hers. 

“You did.” she confirmed, squeezing back. 

“I missed you.” 

“You don’t have to. Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a long time, but I can't apologize this time. This chapter was so, so important to me to get right. I didn't want to force it. 
> 
> Some of you that have been reading since the beginning will remember my hiatus at the end of last year, after going through a traumatic life event. My mom had passed away. And this chapter, being what it's about, and being written when it was- it took a specific kind of care and handling to write. Found family is a precious thing, to me. I'm a big believer that love, even motherly love, can come from so many different places. I could have glossed over it, kept my heart out of it, and given you something generic and cheap, but that's just not me. I don't think I'm ever gonna be that kind of writer. So I gave you something real, and it was hard and a bit painful, but I couldn't be happier with it. 
> 
> I hope if you struggled alongside me on this Mother's Day, that you were able to take the time to appreciate the love you do get. Because you're important and you matter. And if any of you are moms, Happy Mother's Day, thank you for doing the most selfless job there could be. 
> 
> Next chapter should be up within the next couple weeks!
> 
> Also, u bet if i could draw I would have posted this with a piece of Crowley going all Heathers, covered in soot and smoking a cigarette after freshly committing arson, in a SECOND.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Azira realize they've skipped a few steps in the establishment of their relationship and set out to make amends. Valencia learns how teachers really manage the stress of caring for difficult boarding school students.

“And he offered me five galleons! Five! For a first-edition! Can you believe it?” 

Golden eyes glanced up blearily, squinting at the near-offensive brightness of the angel clad in all whites and tans. Crowley gaped, likening a child called on to answer a question in class after caught red-handed doodling instead of taking notes. What was Azira talking about? Books, probably, seemed a safe bet. 

Thin shoulders shrugged up and down, and with a flick of his wand, half a chicken was flung forth into the air and snatched into the waiting jaws of a giant venus flytrap.

“Five galleons. First-edition. Nice.”

Azira gave him an incredulous look. Oh no. Spare Crowley, please, from that look. A storm was coming in the form of words. Words about inflation and historical literature and all manner of things that 8:30 AM and two cups off coffee couldn’t brace him for.

“You’re joking, darling. My father got that book from a fellow in Sweden at an obscure antiques market in 1991 for 850 pounds. When you work in inflation. An offer of  _ five galleons?  _ That’s preposterous! Fiendish, nearly.” 

The next massive carnivorous plant was swaying hypnotically side-to-side in front of the redhead, and he debated forgoing the chicken and offering his head up, instead. 

“Noooooooot the economics,  _ please _ .” 

“I don’t understand how you don’t see how massive a problem it is. If a galleon only equates to five pounds, the summation of his offer was highway robbery, and surely even a wizard-” 

“Please- angel- I - how- it- yo-,” Crowley stammered. He went on beginning sentences that found no ending for about thirty seconds. Azira watched with an amused brow raised before witnessing Crowley’s dramatic staggering over to one of the few work benches in Greenhouse Seven. He slumped over the heavy wooden surface and sounded a pained whine, “I’m so tired.” 

“Oh, darling, I know you’re not an early bird, but typically you manage a bit more eloquence by this time of morning.” 

“Well  _ someone  _ woke me up at 5:30 AM.” Crowley grumbled. The bucket full of meat continued floating down the rows of carnivorous plants, doling out portions for each snapping fauna. They seemed excited at the morning treat, more used to slugs than proper proteins. Mysterious goo ranging from purple to green oozing from their snapping maws. Crowley’s improved mood hadn’t been lost on them. Less screaming, more spoiling, altogether quite a pleasant situation.

“Right, I’m so sorry dear. I shan’t do it ever again.” 

“No! That’s n- nn- not what I-!” Crowley started, stumbling upright in a panic only to find a knowing grin on Azira’s face. The herbologist felt blood rush to his own and was overcome with a sudden remarkable interest with the massive Guatamalan Mystica Cobra Lily in the corner of the room. He sauntered over to it, hands in the pocket of his apron, before retrieving them to run his fingers over its leaves, admiring how hard the plant had worked to mend all its holes and green it’s previously browning leaves. The shame corner did wonders. 

The redhead cleared his throat, trying to act suave and casual so Azira might not be so smug. The attempt crashed and burned before it even formed wings, “I mean, you can wake me up for  _ that  _ any time. I just, y’know, thought I’d get back to sleep before breakfast.” 

Ugh. That grin just blossomed wider, gaining beautiful color, and Crowley wanted to kiss it right off the blonde’s face. 

Azira prowled towards Crowley so naturally his partner hardly noticed. So many majestic and profound specimens in one room, and he only had eyes for one. 

“That was the plan, only you asked me to take my time, to let you savor it,” he hummed. 

Crowley’s heartbeat thumped louder and faster in his ears, increasing with every step the other wizard took. How did he do that, even still? This is what rabbits must have felt like when being circled by foxes.

Broad, well-manicured hands spread under the open collar of designer robes, and Crowley was sure that Azira would feel that mad hammering against his chest. If he didn’t then, he did now, as one hand slid upwards against the curve of his throat, landing to cup just beneath his jaw. A soft thumb idly brushed over the space beneath the pure-blood’s ear. Crowley leaned into it like an over-eager kitten, not conscious of his body’s instinctive reflex to leap into Azira’s orbit the moment the blonde was within his gravitational pull. The hope of forming any rational argument was out the window. Only a half-hearted stammering came out instead, silencing the moment Azira made the indication of speaking again.

“I rather think I  _ might  _ be keen on trying it again. You’re so utterly darling when you’re sleepy. So sweet and polite. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so staunchly remember to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. Can you blame me for fulfilling your requests when they were so earnest?” Azira continued, his nose mere inches from Crowley’s. His lips were even farther, but Crowley still felt his own tingle, pins and needles, in anticipation. 

The pounding in his ears was deafening now. The rush of blood to his face left him with a pleasant dizziness. A heat rushed through his chest like a powerful riptide and everything swept up in its wake was fluttering in an entirely disorienting manner. ‘Run’, hissed his instincts, as they always did when receiving praise, whether mixed with this torturous teasing or not, but there was nowhere to run to. Nowhere he would want to go other than Azira’s arms.

A helpless, mangled whine ripped from his throat, and with few hiding options, he decided creme-colored robes seemed suitable enough. He buried his face there. He felt the muted, relaxed laugh Azira let out vibrate where his ear pressed against the blonde’s throat. 

“I dunno why you humor me. Don’t d- des- deserve it.” 

The voice was muffled in the soft fabric, but soon those steady arms were wrapping around the spindly finger. One hand washed soothingly over his shoulders, the other slipped upwards to glide through deep red locks before establishing a firm but gentle grip. Crowley whimpered as his head was pulled backwards and to the side, and a whirlpool formed in his diaphragm, prompting the heat to swirl down into a deeper pool. 

“Crowley, haven’t I told you? I’ll give you anything you want, wherever and however you want it. I want to, because you’re  _ so  _ good. I don’t know anyone who deserves it quite as genuinely as you do, my dear.” 

His mouth was at Crowley’s neck now. The herbologist was unaware of the established connection between his throat and his knees, but the latter were beginning to give out. He stood, completely at Azira’s disposal with his own soiled hands hovering behind his lover’s back. He couldn’t touch. He was delightfully trapped. 

“Even here?” he asked. It was meant to sound flirtatious, but instead came across excited and a bit scandalized. 

“Even here.” 

“B-b-but, now?” 

“Of course not, silly boy,” Azira laughed, and with it, the heat and pressure of his body was gone so quickly Crowley nearly got whiplash. The librarian fussed to right his lover’s robes, “You have a class to teach.”

If the look before was smug, this one was the utmost self-congratulatory. The corner of his mouth twitched, struggling to surprise a louder laugh when Crowley narrowed his gaze and gaped, his glasses slipping down to the very tip of his nose. Azira took great joy in using a forefinger to slide them back into place on the bridge between those serpentine eyes. 

“You’re a bloody tease, you are!” 

“I said ‘however’ and ‘wherever’, my dear, not ‘whenever’.” 

“A complete sodding tease, under all that gooey kindness and warmth is a hard sadistic center,” Crowley huffed, raising his glasses to scrub his face with slightly trembling hands.

“Er… speaking of nature…”

When the herbologist finally felt cooled down enough to spare another look, he found a calm, analytic gaze masking Azira’s face in place of the smug one that had resided there before. Red brows raised in curiosity until he followed the clouds of those eyes to the mangled vine creeping and restricting about his partner’s upper arm. Crowley’s gaze snapped to the plant beside him and narrowed menacingly. His fingers curled in a weak but prominent threat around the great stalk of the cobra lily, and he scowled. 

“Sod off, Veronica, you jealous bitch, unless you fancy a future in the compost,” he growled. 

The warning, while entirely empty, was convincing enough for the plant to snap back to attention and shiver. The shaking didn’t cease until the herbologist retrieved his hand and relieved Veronica of his unforgiving glare. 

With that sorted out, Crowley guided Azira toward the workbench with the awkward twist of his wrist, sliding his sunglasses upwards to push back his red shocks of hair so he could fix his partner with the proper concern. “Did she hurt you?”

“Oh, no, rest assured everything is intact and ship-shape.” 

“Good,” Crowley sighed, a small smile of relief fixing itself upon his face. The ttension in his shoulders slid away. He leaned forward, minding to keep his dirt-covered hands away from Azira’s face as he kissed him. 

A loud shout of a passing student outside made Crowley jump back, clear his throat, and hurry back to his morning tasks with such haste he easily missed the great roll of Azira’s blue eyes. The librarian hummed, returning to his reading of the morning’s issue of The Daily Prophet. 

A fire gone awry during the Imbolg festival in Diagon Alley had left an unfortunate amount of damage to several prominent storefronts. The article went into great detail over the debate of enforcing stronger restrictions of decorations and activities for the upcoming celebration of Ostara. Azira, only recently rejoining the wizarding world, had forgotten about the plethora of pagan holidays. He’d also forgotten- although he had no idea how- about how recklessly wizardkind celebrated. His lover was certainly counted among the most rowdy lot. Who knew what he and George Weasley would be getting up to this year, especially with Valencia Heller rejoining their ranks. 

“Y’know as lacking as I am in complaints about our time together, I’m starting to feel a bit more like your concubine than your boyfriend.” Crowley finally broke the silence after a time of weeding out pests from the soil of his more sentient plants. 

“Oh?” Azira raised an amused brow, “How do you figure that?” 

“Well… ‘s just... haven’t been on a proper date, not really.” Crowley heaved a burlap sack over his shoulder and continued his rounds to the next greenhouse. Azira kept pace beside him, pretending not to notice Crowley’s horrible failure in appearing casual about the topic.

The topic had been eating at the back of Crowley’s mind, but he was afraid. Too afraid that he’d learn yes, he was doing something wrong. Or no, Azira didn’t want to be seen with him. That’s what people did when they were together, wasn’t it? They went out together? Gaudily flaunted their happiness and affection? Surely, Crowley was failing him somehow. He was anxious about this, so obviously it might as well have been broadcasted. 

“I mean, we used to go to dinner all the time, but we haven’t been ‘t all lately an- a- and we’ve been together over a month and-” 

“I don’t think that’s quite fair, dearest. I’d ask you to remember you were unwell a great deal of that time, and you’ve had your hands quite full managing recent events. I don’t want you thinking you have to entertain or appease some imaginary expectations you’ve decided I have.” 

Crowley didn’t turn around from his attentive fertilizing of the Moly flowers stacked in a corner of the great room, but with a sigh, all the anxiety slipped from his body. Leave it to Azira to know just how to reassure him. 

“Besides. You make it very difficult to flaunt you when the indication of a student within fifty meters causes you to eschew me as if I had Dragonpox,” Azira added.

“Eschew?” 

“Keep away.”

Crowley blinked in confusion, turning to find the return of that grin. Leave it to Azira to know when to tease him, too. A slight blush caught Crowley’s face, and he scowled as if that would hide the changed color. 

“I do not! There is no ‘eschewing’ happening here!”

“Oh yes there is. In fact, you go to great lengths to ensure you avoid so much as glancing at me. It’s entertaining, watching you vault that chasm from ‘adoring and doting lover’ to ‘perfect stranger’.” 

“Mmmnphg,” Crowley argued, briskly passing Azira to tend to the Hyena trees behind him. 

“I daresay if you’re attempting to hide our relationship from the students, your current methodology might serve to be much more suspect than carrying on as usual.”

“I’m not trying to hide anything. And I’m not esche- esh- I’m not avoiding you!” the redhead grumbled, although it strangely likened something closer to whining. He wiped soiled hand across the front of his apron, and pushed stray red strands out of his hair with a forearm. It was getting long again. Long enough to make his gut twist when he looked in the mirror. Time to cut it again. “Just. Y’know. PDA a- ann- i dun- ann- ugh. And I… don’t want to… dunno, subject them to anything inappropriate.” 

“Oh yes, seeing us holding hands or- Lord forbid it- giving one another a fond look will scar the poor dears for the rest of their days,” Azira gasped with mock scandal, having far too much fun at Crowley’s expense than the herbologist particularly cared for. Especially when it was so on the nose. 

“I- w- we- well- th- the- there’s-,” he tried, turning to find unbridled amusement on Azira’s face and throwing his arms up in a melodramatic display of frustration before huffing out, “Damn it, angel! I’m not hiding anything! Hell, I’ll announce it in the Great Hall if you’d like. Stand on the astronomy tower and declare my love for you. But- that’s all beside the point! Point is, we’re overdue a date. Quit changing the subject. You’re not getting out of this one, Fell!” 

“Devastating,” Azira teased, “I’m more than amenable, dear. Your class is starting soon.”

Crowley started reaching down to find his pocket watch, but frowned at his hands that had somehow already become muddied all over again. There were certain caveats to having expensive taste in clothing alongside a career that involved rooting around in entirely too much soil and fertilizer. He gave them a run over his apron again, but came up short of satisfaction with their level of cleanliness.

“8:52,” Azira offered diplomatically before snapping his own watch shut. 

“Right,” the herbologist mumbled, dusting off his hands and shaking his apron out hopelessly before leading the way to Greenhouse Four, where the fifth year lesson would be starting. 

“How does Sunday sound? We could journey into Edinburgh! I’ve recently read about a lovely new Brazilian restaurant, and you haven’t gotten to see much of the Muggle culture there.” 

“Quidditch practice all day,” Crowley mumbled, sounding nearly as disappointed as he felt about having to turn down such an intriguing offer, “But that sounds spot on. How a weeknight? Or Saturday?” 

“Mmmm,” Azira shook his head, managing to tamper his dismay better than his counterpart, “Midterms are coming up, it’s important I’m in the library to help students prepare. Extra tutoring sessions, and the like. You can’t imagine the preposterous amount of check-out requests I get this time of year.”

“The nerve of them, wanting to study outside the library,” Crowley jested, grin growing toothy as Azira released a haughty huff. 

The pair entered the greenhouse side by side. The sun was barely out on the cold, bleak day, but still, the rays that found their way to the ancient, intricate, ironwork-bordered glass of the building bounced all about its contents. In its wake, it left a glowing, warm atmosphere maintained at a lovely temperature. No wonder it was one of the animagus’s favorite places to be.

“Well, as much as I’d love having all the time in the world to whisk you away and spend my newfound fortune on you, buy you ancient libraries, and hire the world’s finest chefs, we could always… dunno, do something on grounds? Sneak away for lunch tomorrow?” the redhead pitched hopefully, distributing sheers to each workstation as Azira followed after him with the spades that had been previously unloaded into his arms. He liked to help, but there was little he could do with his finicking over keeping clean and deadset aversion to touching plants. 

Students were gradually trickling in, chattering amongst themselves. A few turned to greet Crowley, but abandoned the endeavor immediately upon finding him immersed in conversation with their librarian. Funny looks were not spared in the same manner. It wasn’t a surprise to see them together, of course not. Seeing Azira grace the greenhouses, however, was a different matter altogether. Didn’t he know that there was dirt in here? 

“I don’t believe there’s anywhere we could go to achieve any ideal amount of privacy. Certainly nowhere very romantic.” 

Crowley hummed in thought, making his way to his own workstation and leaning back against it. His fingernails, sporting chipped black nail polish, drummed on the edges of the table. His spine made a rare journey to straightening out and he gasped and grinned. He had it now. The perfect idea.

“Oh! I’ve got it. I know where we can go. Why don’t you just leave it to me? I’ll surprise you.” 

“I should hope whatever you’re scheming involves lunch?” 

Crowley perched himself on the rickety wooden stool and leaned back, his fingers pressed to his chest in mock offense. “I am not ‘scheming’, and what do you take me for? An amateur? Of course I’m going to  _ feed  _ you, angel!” 

“Of course you are. My mistake, dearest. I do hope you’ll forgive me?” Azira ceded with a coy smile, clasping his hands behind his ever-perfectly postured back. If Crowley weren’t so distracted by that fucking pixie platoon wreaking havoc in his chest again, he might have realized his angel was up to something.

“I suppose I’ll consider it,” Crowley sighed dramatically, trying not to swoon off his seat at that beautiful smile he was gifted. He spared a moment to marvel at the familiar crinkle next to those vast, endless blue skies. 

“How sweet you are,” was the sarcastic retort, yet somehow it still made him bristle in his seat. The librarian released a fond laugh before leaning in to press a chaste, loving kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “Have a good morning, dearest.”

“Mmmmnngh,” Crowley managed out, “Mhmm, yep. Yes. I’ll do that. Ciao.” 

He watched after Azira as he left, an utterly besotted expression captivating his face as clearly as if the glasses were entirely absent. It was only after the door was firmly shut that Crowley realized the obscurity of a silent classroom. It was full wasn’t it? It was. But no noise. No exceptions were made. A pin could drop and Hagrid would probably hear it from his hut. 

Golden eyes turned to survey the abnormality. Over a hundred fifth years stared back, the vast majority of them slack-jawed. 

“Er? You lot alright? I miss something?” 

Crowley had nearly grown used to the still-life portrait after several motionless moments passed by, up until Adrien Fawley stood on the bottom ring of his stool, slammed his hands down on his workstation, swung his arm round in its socket, pointed an accusing finger straight between Bernadette Blishwick’s eyes, and sounded at the top of his lungs a smug and triumphant,  _ “HAAAAAAAAA!”  _

There was no transition, not really. One moment hosted a stoic silence, and the next was an uproarious cacophony of movement and shouting and- Satan below, were they collecting on bets? Must have been, he realized as Slytherin Richard Browne collected and distributed fast-flying flashes of silver and bronze coins to a crowd gathered around him.

It was Crowley’s turn to stand, in an extraordinarily rare form- in silent awe. His lips were parted, a nostril scrunched. One brow was furrowed and the other raised. Confusion cloaked and swirled in his mind until he heard the words ‘Professor Fell’, ‘dating’, and ‘I told you’, at least a dozen times each. 

Of course. Leave it to these genius little monsters to put two and two together. Perhaps he had been holding his cards close to the vest. Perhaps he had been worried about how these too-smart brats would react. But by the time Harvey Elms had slapped him on the back, Ravenclaw Willow Jones gave him an overly-formal shake of the hand along with an exaggerated explanation on how she knew it all along, Gryffindor Thayer Noctis scolded him for withholding from their nail-painting gossip sessions, and the timid Octavia Greengrass threw her arms around him in unbridled joy, Crowley felt an immense weight lift from his shoulders. 

A bit of silliness saddled down in its place. What on earth had he been afraid of? Of course the students would be happy. They were a family, after all, and at last, they were whole. 

* * *

“HIT ‘IM!”

“KICK HIS ARSE!”

Crowley instinctively raised to his feet from the gaggle of children he had been grouped into a nail-painting circle with, although he didn’t achieve as much without a burdened sigh. With a quick apology to the gaggle of gossip-mongers, he paced around the courtyard to find the source of the ruckus just past the eastern stone archway, shaking his hands as he went in hopes of drying the purple nail-lacquer. With a thought at his luck, he managed to arrive just before an all too familiar figure shouted, “The fuck did you call me?” and lunged for a seventh-year Gryffindor’s throat, sharp black fingernails bared like a panther’s claws. 

He looped his arm around her neck first with a grace and agility only a serpent could strike with, and pulled her backwards, struggling with the effort of wrangling her. The pair staggered for a moment as he mumbled soothing words into her ear while simultaneously yanking her away from the red-headed boy.

“It’s good, you’re good. Deep breaths, V. Just think of Honeydukes. The smell of fresh candy floss. Yasmin Gigglegut’s brand new comedy routine. Piano and- good- er- piano compositions? Right? ‘S that good?” 

Her huffing slowed. The stark red of her face slowly turned into a flushed tan. Her snarl dampened from throat-ripping to a more standard, general threat. 

“It’s fine, I won’t! I wont hit him letmeGO!” Valencia growled before escaping his hold. She huffed, haughtily righting her hair and robes before pointing an accusing finger back at the student who was far, far too amused for her taste. “He called me forty! Can you bloody believe that shite?”

“Uh, yeah. You’re thirty-eight, Val,” Crowley reminded her. He allowed her a second to transcend through a myriad of faces, looking to the boy since he knew he couldn’t keep himself from laughing and that the consequence of such an audacious action would be his friend turning her anger on him, instead. “You’re fine, Fred. Pick your targets more wisely. Didn’ your Da teach you better?” 

“Awwwh, c’mon, Crowley! I wasn’t even trying that time! Can’t blame that on me!” The boy bit back with a broad grin and raised brows. At the Defense Against the Dark Art’s teachers’ murderous gaze, he raised his hands in submission, bowing deeply with a solemn and heartfelt, “My apologies, your very scary witchiness,” and strutting away. 

Val looked back at her friend, panting from her overworked state, “that was-?”

“Yeah, George’s boy.” 

“The  _ fuck  _ would he name him that for? That’s just sodding  _ cruel!”  _

“W-wee- the- weh- well the rest of us have had a bit more time to get used to it- c’mon, come with me.” 

He turned sharply and sauntered off without her. It was always best not to do options with Valencia but rather gear towards ultimatums. She could follow after and take the opportunity to calm down, or she could stand there, bewildered, and risk another altercation. 

The prior seemed a better bet, and she met his stride, her face a cross between a glower and a pout. “Doesn’t matter where you take me,” she growled, “The brats’ll be there too.” 

“Oh no. There’s a place. No students. No worries. No questions. No harassment. It’s a magical, beautiful place.” 

“Can it be so? Can such a place exist?” she humored him, yanking his hand out of his pocket so she could loop her elbow around his.

“It can indeed, we call it,” he reached out his free arm, painting the title before him with a dramatic sweep of his palm, “The  _ staff lounge.”  _

“And you’ve been keeping it from me?” 

“‘Course not,  _ boba,  _ you knew it existed. You’ve just been a hermit.”

“I am not a  _ hermit.”  _

“Are too. Running away to Hogsmeade every chance you get.” 

Before she could bicker back, he took a corner, opened a door, shoved her inside, and dragged her to sit at a table across from the Hogwarts Potions Master and Librarian. He took the liberty of seating himself beside her. Neither of them bothered to look up, enraptured in the decoding of a parchment sporting such horrid penmanship it required their combined powers of deduction. Crowley announced their arrival.

“Our poor new professor nearly lost it on a student just now. Went straight for his neck.”

“Poor Valeria,” Anathema sighed, only somewhat sparing the theatrics as she refused to look up from the assignment. Valencia rolled her eyes.

“I hardly think Flawless Fell here can relate to the impulse,” she grumbled, slumping down into her chair, crossing her arms, and taking an immense interest in the heavy grey clouds gathering outside the window. 

“On the contrary, dear girl, while I can’t relate to the urge to strangle, there have been many a student so disrespectful they’ve heavily tempted me towards the impulse of a good jinxing.” 

The witch raised her head enough to raise a brow (and if one squinted hard enough, a corner of her mouth) at him. 

“And how, pray tell, does one restrain such an impulse?”

The table went quiet at her question for a while. The sound of crackling flames within the great ornate fireplace was the only sound to creep throughout the room for a time. 

“Well, one must find a manner of channeling the emotions that have built to inspire said impulse,” Azira finally contributed. 

“Oh, yeah. That’s good. Like, I get to yank shit in and out of dirt all day. Very satisfying for that deep down urge to just tear at something with your hands,” Crowley added.

“Or chop things up and chuck it into a boiling cauldron of goo,” Anathema offered diplomatically.

“Or there’s always the choice of reading a good book. Something you can relate to or that might allow you escape into a preferable reality.” 

Valencia was sliding lower into her chair by the moment. It wasn’t that she was so similar to Crowley as much as she likened the brooding teenagers around her with a striking resemblance. 

“I’ve done that. Not the reading or plants or potions or whatever. But- but y’know. Done things I fancy. Playing pranks. Bangin’ on the piano. Punching people. Doesn’t work.”

“Uh, who you been punching, then?” Crowley asked, unsure he wanted to know but feeling compelled to make sure it wasn’t anybody he was responsible for the safekeeping of. He’d thought she was above it- at least before witnessing her leap at Fred Jr. with the clear intent to kill.

Valencia huffed and drudged forth as if he hadn’t said anything. “You don’t understand it’s- it’s the pressure. It’s just building and building and building on. It feels so big, so fucking heavy. Packing on inside me and rising to a fever pitch. Like I’m just- just going to bloody  _ burst  _ like a blasted dam. Fuck, at this point I’d  _ welcome  _ it. ” 

“Oh.” Anathema and Crowley said simultaneously. The herbologist looked at the potions master. She shrugged and pivoted her head to the side. He slumped his shoulders and swung his chin towards Heller. Anathema scoffed through her nose and rolled her eyes to look at the ceiling. Crowley leaned forward pleadingly, allowing his glasses to slide down his nose so he could tempt her with with a sugar-sweet gaze.

“Diablo take me, what the fuck is it?” 

Crowley hesitated, stammering for an abnormally long time before at last spitting out, “www- w- we- well… sounds like you need….”

“What?” she snapped.

“To get laid,” the potions master finished

Valencia raised her brows and tipped her head, heaving a great sigh as if to say, ‘ain’t that the truth.’ 

“So you knew that, already?” Anathema offered. She didn’t  _ like  _ Heller. Of course she didn’t. But she was important to Crowley. Thus, she was burdened with the compulsion to try. 

“Yeah it’s just- it’s different than school. That’s the only experience I have. You know everybody. You know who’s game. You know what they want and how much. You know who’s gonna keep their gob shut. The real world… it’s just so… so fucking big. Dunno any of that. It’s hard.” 

“It really isn’t,” Crowley corrected, very interested in the charcuterie platter arranging itself on the far edge of the room. Azira blinked, raising his focus from the papers before him and fixing his gaze on the redhead. Far be it from the herbologist to miss it. 

“It’s not?” Valencia asked.

“It’s not,” Anathema snorted. 

“So you lot know then? Where do you go? What do you do? How often have you done it?” 

“Uh,” Crowley started, “Well, I mean. Any club or bar really. You just- you kind of- you- you- you...” 

He stopped, uncharacteristically stiff with discomfort. He pushed his glasses up and buried a hand in his hair. It wasn’t that he was ashamed, oh no. It had been a need- a necessity. If anyone was an expert on seducing strangers into one-night-stands, it was Crowley. Speaking about his multitudes of exploits in front of his exclusive boyfriend, however, was another matter entirely. 

Azira wasn’t the type for one-night-stands. Azira was classy. He did things properly. He went on dates. He entered relationships, and then he would have his fill, exclusively and- well- excessively. Oh, Crowley didn’t like thinking about that either. He didn’t like thinking about the men his lover had so generously declared his love to. He didn’t like thinking about the ungrateful bastards who touched him, not understanding the blessing they’d been bestowed. So wasn’t it hypocritical? Surely, Crowley hadn’t had  _ that.  _ Yet there was no doubt Azira wouldn’t want to hear about the men and women who had passed through and handed Crowley off like a dirty used tissue. 

“Right, I really ought to getting back to the library. Big charms exam tomorrow,” Azira offered the mercy after a prolonged and uncomfortable silence. 

Oh, how generous. Crowley’s heart squeezed. How thoughtful and accepting. He knew. He wasn’t ignorant, but he wasn’t about to stick around and force his partner through the fear of judgement. He leaned down to kiss the side of Crowley’s head and earned an utterly besotted gaze in turn before making his way out into the hall. The redhead turned back, a new, invigorated determination crossing his face.

“What about that cute Hogsmeade post office lady? Know you fancy her.”

“I do not-,” Valencia’s face turned a starker crimson than Crowley had ever seen it, “We’re just  _ friends.  _ Nothing untoward happening there!” 

_ “Really?”  _ he drawled, a wicked grin revealing his oblong, sharp canines,“so you’ve just been writing her songs because you’re such close mates, eh?” 

“Did you bring me here to help or are you just going to be a pendejo?” the woman huffed, pouting the plush lips painted such a blood red one might guess she was a freshly-fed vampire and glowering out the window yet again.

Crowley grinned, sprawling over the table and tipping his cheek onto a fist to observe her until she got so irritated he became aware that a retaliation was incoming. He draped back over his chair, shrugging. 

“Right so it’s like this. You go to a bar, sit at the counter, wait for someone to buy you a drink, throw around some come-hither eyes if you’re keen on it. Know you know how. Someone too handsome or confident is bad. They’ll use you for all you’ve got and leave you high and dry. Someone too trashy and over-eager probably won’t be too exciting. Go after someone with some coyness and reserve. ‘S alright to wait for them to make the first move if you’re not sure.” 

“But how do I  _ know?”  _ Valencia asked.

“Oh, trust,” Anathema drawled, rolling her eyes and grinning, “you’ll know.” 

“Women are a safer bet, but you’re a bossy little bitch. Any man that takes you home isn’t worth it if he complains when you take the reins,” Crowley offered with a smirk, taking the tea his boyfriend had left behind and sipping at it. “If you want a wing man, I'm there. I’ll interrogate the fucker first. Make sure he’s good for you. I don’t give a flying flobberworm how I come across.” 

Valencia sighed, looking down at her nails for a time before a cagey, guarded energy came up and cocooned around her curvy frame. She threw a sharp grin in Anathema’s direction.

“How ‘bout you, Device? You seem like you might be a bit of fun.” 

Anathema crossed her legs and flicked her quill against the parchment she was grading, challenging Valencia with a quirked brow. Crowley was shocked to find his childhood friend sweating over it, though she clung to her calm, cool disposition like a toddler to his blanket. 

“I’m sorry to inform you I’m taken. Besides, it might be wise to start out on some gentler rides. Wouldn’t want to get in over your head.” 

Valencia hardly had time to allow a semblance of insecurity to swirl into her green eyes before a swift kick was delivered to Anathema’s shin. The witch started, glaring at Crowley before he leaned forward and hissed through gritted teeth, “Didn’t you promise to familiarize some seventh years with the NEWT potions criteria?” 

She glared at him first, but ceded to a state of mature grace, brushing her long brown locks over a shoulder. 

“Yes. Thank you for reminding me, Crowley,” she stated far too formally for comfort. The witch raised to her feet, collecting her things into a worn leather bag before leaning down to offer the her worried new coworker a warm smile, “Hey, take it easy. It’s supposed to be fun, isn’t it?” 

An unhurried, meaningful gaze passed between them. It was the kind of communication meant to be passed from one woman to another. Crowley forced himself to look away from it, not to decipher it. He wasn’t a woman. It shouldn’t fucking hurt. He shouldn’t have known what it meant. It wasn’t for him. He was a man. A man. 

“RIght,” Valencia smiled, and some moments late, unnoticed by the wizard amongst them, Anathema said her goodbyes and departed. A touch to his arm shocked the herbologist back to reality. The sky was dark now, and briefly, he wondered when that happened. 

“Are you alright?” the familiar voice asked. She still had a tinge of Colombian accent, he noted. Probably wouldn’t have, if things had gone as they were meant to.

“Fine.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“So what are you doing- for stress relief, I mean?” 

“Thought you were tired of hearing about that,” Crowley gave a thrilled grin. It was true, he had no problem going on about his sex life, and while she had been intrigued at first, an excessive amount of rambling had caused Valencia to finally cry ‘uncle’. “But since you asked, fuck, this  _ morning _ Azira wakes me up, and what a way to start the day-” 

“Eaaaaugh, no! I didn’t mean that,” Valencia huffed with a great roll of green eyes. “No. I mean what are you doin’ in terms of… y’know, self care?” 

In the time it took for Crowley to process the question, his glasses had slid to the tip of his nose. 

“Uhhhh,” he started, pushing them back up to guard his unsure golden gaze, “Gardening?” 

“That’s your job, that doesn’t count.” 

“Oh,” he said, as if he was unaware, “Hm. I m- mmme- uh, hmm, mean, being around Azira is great.” 

“That’s not something you do for yourself.”

“Eh, pretty much is, though,” he mumbled, embarrassed at the exposing honesty of it, “Things make sense when I’m with him.” 

An dark brown eyebrow twitched, and Valencia leaned forward. All at once, Crowley saw what this was. Well, for the most part, it was a bit fuzzy. He saw the shape of it, though; she was interrogating him, digging for information. “But you’ve been spending more nights alone. What do you do then? Self-care wise, I mean.” 

Crowley shifted, uncomfortable now that he realized he was being assessed. His arms crossed as if they’d do anything to shield him. His gaze fixed on his nails- fuck, they were all smudged and speared. In the rush, he’d forgotten the lacquer wasn’t dry. 

“Dunno. Almost done with my book.” 

“That’s for work, too.” 

“Yell at plants.”

“What about?” 

A haughty huff was released, and he fixed her with an annoyed glare, “Whatever comes to mind when I drink.” 

“You’ve been drinking alone?” 

“Okay. Out with it. You make a shit Sherlock.” 

A bit of guilt flashed across Val’s face before she rectified it. Never allowed herself to feel shame, that one. She pointed her chin up instead, owning her capture. “I’ve been researching PTSD, is all. And since yours is flaring up, I just wanted to make sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.” 

After several moments of Crowley’s unwavering and indecipherable stare, she squirmed, “Well? Are you?” 

“According to who?” Her flawless posture slackened a bit in relief at the sound of his voice. 

“Your… therapist, I guess?” 

Crowley snorted. Val’s eyebrow twitched. Uh-oh. 

“You  _ do _ have a therapist, don’t you?” she asked, although it was the type of question that begged a certain answer under penalty of some kind of cruel and unusual punishment. Crowley looked around for an excuse to change the topic, but they were alone in the room, now. He knew she was clever, but certainly she hadn’t planned this? 

“Nah. Dun need some wanker telling me how fucked up I am. I already know I’m fucked up.” 

“They don’t- that’s not-,” she huffed, bristling and exhaling through her nose. Overall, Crowley was uncomfortable with how much she likened a bull getting ready to charge. He glanced down to check if he was wearing red. She certainly seemed to think so. “AJ, you had a nervous breakdown a  _ couple months  _ ago and still didn’t go to a therapist?” 

“Exactly. And I’m fine now. Back at work. In the healthiest relationship of my life.”

“And you’re happy?” 

“How couldn’t I be?” he challenged. Beneath it, he wondered at the question for the first time. He hadn’t asked himself. He’d been unafraid to. She tricked him into it asking. Into wondering. He should be, shouldn’t he? He should be happy. There really was no reason to be  _ unhappy.  _ No reason for the anxiety looming larger and larger in the shadows of the corner of his mind that he’d chucked it into.

The witch across him looked as unsure as he felt.

“Look,” he sighed, “I’m fine. I promise. I’m having episodes less and less. What could a therapist do?”

“They can help you feel safe and monitored and in-control.” 

“No one can do that better than Azira can. Don’t even remember why I’m upset when I’m around him,” he argued with unwavering faith. He believed it. 

“Tony,” she said. Already he sighed, feeling labored just by the tone in her voice. “Forgettin’ shouldn’t be the goal. It’s not good to forget. Things like this- anger or sadness or trauma- they don’ just go away. They’re like open wounds. If you don’ get them tended to, they could heal wrong, or get infected, and before you know it your whole arm is being amputated.” 

“So- w- whh- wha- what’s my arm in this scenario? My brain? My entirety of being? What, am I going to be euthanized?” He was aiming for sarcastic, but the quickness and tone of his voice made it land somewhere closer to defensive.

“No i’m just saying-,” she sighed, realizing he wouldn’t respond to this energy. She regathered her resources, closing her eyes and taking measured breaths before giving him a grounded look. “Tony, just be careful. When you don’t examine these things, they creep into your relationships. You start projectin’ things that aren’t there. Remember ‘fore I started anger management fourth year? I was always making up problems that didn’t exist. I was a bitch. I was so bad to people I cared about. To you. I self-sabotaged. I didn’t mean to, but I was ignorant and I didn’t know how to handle those feelings. I just… don’t want that to happen to you.” 

Crowley wasn’t sure exactly what she was rubbing away at inside him, but whatever it may have been, it was wearing thin. He didn’t want it to snap straight through. He wasn’t sure what would happen if it did.

“Look. Val. That won’t happen. I won’t go ruining things for myself. If I start self-sabotaging, I’ll go… dunno, get my fucking head shrunk. Happy?” 

He slumped back in his own seat and glared out the window at the looming stormclouds blocking out the moonlight. Valencia perked up in her own chair, taking the mug of tea from him and not particularly seeming to mind she was its third owner. She took a long sip and shrugged her shoulders, throwing a coy grin his way. 

“Yep. Happy.” 

* * *

“You’re joking,” Azira said. Hoped, rather. Doubt shrouded his face as he looked on at the date destination that had Crowley so excitedly decided upon. 

“‘Course not! C’mon! I’ve planned it all out, just for you!” Crowley shouted from afar, holding his arms out to the side in a plea of desperation.

He stood several meters away on a deep blue picnic blanket. Plush pillows lined its edges. Candles floated around its perimeter in slow spirals, casting a dim, warm light that made the sky appear just a touch less grey. All manner of foods and snacks were spread out in the center of the cloth, Azira’s favorites alongside some equally appetizing options Crowley must have chosen for him. Clearly, the herbologist had put quite some time and effort into it, perhaps even cutting his last class short to prepare. 

He must have done, as there wasn’t a speck of dirt on him. He’d taken the time to make himself presentable, wearing the dark green shirt Azira had months ago commented that he looked so handsome in, and his hair wasn’t falling out of its style the way it typically did after a morning in the greenhouses. He looked so lovely standing there. So earnest. It was beautiful, it might have been a thing out of Azira’s dreams. Still, he stood his ground, not daring to come an inch closer. The picnic wasn’t the problem. Nor was the man. Rather, it was the tree he was standing under. 

“Did you plan out my inevitable death, as well?” Azira scoffed, eyes pivoting back and forth between Crowley and the Whomping Willow. His gaze didn’t chance lingering. Surely if it did, the old tree would uproot itself and come smite him where he stood. 

“Awwwhh, you’re being dramatic, angel!” Crowley called back, swinging his arms in front of himself dismissively, “No one will bother us here, that’s what you wanted!” 

“Should I have specified I’d also like to abstain from injury?” 

“Soooo, the brave and cunning Azira Fell, who’s faced off against wanker aurors and dementors and who knows what else, forfeits before a cranky old tree that didn’t even threaten him?” 

The redhead looked all too amused and giddy at the situation, and Azira might have been more irritated by it if that smile wasn’t so honest and charming. 

“Didn’t threaten me?” he asked in fifty different shades of incredulity. The expression on his face had Crowley doubled over laughing.

“What! She didn’t!”

“Not yet, anyhow! The sasquatch stone is right there. One step past it and I’ll be flung to the Quidditch fields. You’ll never need to worry about a date again.” 

The sasquatch stone was part of Hogwarts grounds history. It had been there as long as the castle itself. While it didn’t particularly look like a sasquatch in any perceivable way, it was the widely-known point of no return into the Whomping Willow’s reach. 

Crowley snorted, finally giving up his position and coming to retrieve his partner. His long fingers pried Azira’s hands apart from worrying at one another, curling through one set of stiff digits. His best attempt was made to pull the librarian towards the picnic, but instead he was yanked the opposite direction, letting out an amused snort as he found Azira guiding him away from the tree. 

“Don’t you trust me?” the redhead gave his most debonair grin, stepping close and bumping their noses together. 

“You, yes, but not always your judgement,” Azira chided, gaze fixed in nervous anticipation at the tree. Trees grew. Was the sasquatch stone even an accurate indicator anymore? If not, how long had it been faulty? What was the new measurement?

Crowley’s expression softened, and he pushed his glasses atop his head. A free hand raised to slide into white-blonde curls. His thumb gently rubbed at the space behind Azira’s ear.

“Hey,” he mumbled, successfully summoning those lovely blue eyes to meet his amber. Some calm washed over Azira. “You got me there, but Willow won’t hurt you. I’m the best mutual friend you could hope for.”

Typically, Crowley worried over very trivial matters. Typically, he didn’t worry when there was legitimate cause to. Occasionally, there would be balance. He really was a pure-blood, a marvelous manifestation of the wizarding world. He was wild by nature. The most abnormal was his normal. The surreal was his reality. It was all so much for Azira sometimes. But wasn’t that awe-inspiring magic what had drawn him back to this world? Wasn’t it what made him fall so madly in love with Crowley? He didn’t make sense, not at all, but it simply made him nonsensically perfect. 

Loving Crowley was the most logical choice Azira ever made, but understanding him often took a harrowing leap of faith. Still, when the blonde looked into those wide serpentine eyes, so eager to please, their slitted pupils dilated like an adoring cat’s, he’d jump from any height. With a slow exhale, he allowed the animagus to begin guiding him towards the base of the tree. Azira stopped a few times upon witnessing the tree groan and bristle, and Crowley had to swat his hand away from his wand more than once, but soon enough, the pair were standing between the blanket and the tree. Those amber eyes flicked back and forth between the tree and the librarian, not in anxiety but in excitement. Azira briefly figured that his own profession- librarian- or book keeper- or really his hobbies, too- must make him the mortal enemy of trees. He decided he wouldn’t crush Crowley’s hopes by breaching the topic. 

“Oh  _ c’mon  _ you two. Wh- whhh- whe- where’s the love? I thought we talked about this. You were going to be friendly. I know, I know, that’s not exactly your MO, but you don’t need to be so icey.” 

Azira was about to argue that he was friendly enough, and he certainly wasn’t acting cold. After analyzing Crowley’s body language, he realized he wasn’t the one being spoken to. Crowley was talking. To the tree. Of course he was. Azira wasn’t sure where he stood on the matter of plants being sentient, even magical ones. He’d always found Crowley’s befriending and talking to them to be an endearing, if not peculiar, quirk of character. However, the fact that he was not currently being clobbered into a puddle of pro-tree-murderer goop made him appreciate his lover’s fauna friendships as more than simply an endearing trait. 

The tree bristled again, and Crowley pulled the other wizard even closer, grinning at him, “Willow’s my oldest friend, you know. Even older than Valencia. She was… y’know, like me. Standoffish and nasty and a bit of a tosser, but just wanted some companionship beneath it. Someone to see beneath it. She’s a softy.” 

The tree groaned again, lowering a branch to thwack Crowley in the face with the twigs at the end.

“Ack!” he explained, delivering a kick to one of the sprawling roots, “Sorry, did I say  _ a bit  _ of a tosser?” 

The branches stiffened before slacking, reminding Azira of a begrudging huff. Crowley pulled his hand again, and Azira instinctively pulled back. The redhead threw him a humored grin, and the blonde relaxed, allowing Crowley to place his hand against the rough bark. When he looked up at his beloved’s face, every single star in that galaxy swirling within his eyes was shining its brightest. It barely held a candle to his smile. 

“See, she’s good. Can you feel it?” 

Azira didn’t feel anything. Well, not beneath his palm anyway. But he felt so much in his heart. It was aching in his chest, burning up from the warmth Crowley instilled there. And his mind was buzzing wildly with a number of affections that could no sooner be shared than repopulated in an endless cycle. He’d never run out of reasons why he loved this man so much. Azira appreciated nature, but he didn’t feel any sort of kinship with it the way Crowley did. Still, he loved that about Crowley. He loved that he loved plants. He loved that he resonated with such fragile and beautiful things.

“I can,” he lied, and it was worth it for the way that handsome face lit up the world with its beatific beaming. 

“Right,” Crowley muttered after a long enough time that he grew bashful over his own joy, looking around for something to busy himself with. “I uhm, didn’t know what you would want, so I brought… er… everything I could think of. Do you want tea?” 

“How thoughtful you are. That sounds lovely, darling,” Azira hummed, unable to restrain his smile at the way Crowley’s ears turned pink, even when he faced away. He made his way over to the blanket, sitting down across from his lover in the nest he’d prepared. His well manicured hand brushed to the edge of the blanket, and his grin grew when he found the underside patterned with tartan. 

“What.. er.. Kind? There’s… jasmine, hibiscus, mint and chamomile, and earl grey lavender.” 

“My goodness, when did you have the time to find all those? I know that’s certainly not the kitchen’s offering.”

Crowley squirmed and flushed the way he always did when called out for doing something thoughtful. 

“I, uhm, got them from my tea garden.” 

Azira blinked, cocking his head curiously, “Since when have you had a tea garden?” 

“Er… s- ssss- si- six months or so?” he mumbled, busying himself with rearranging the herbs between them. 

“You don’t like tea,” the blonde identified, a suspicious but fond smile making its beginnings on his face. 

“N-nnnm,” he trailed off, mumbling a few incoherent things that Azira was sure weren’t words anyway before admitting, “but you do.”

“Oh, Anthony-”

_ “Don’t-”  _

Azira didn’t. But he did look in surprise at a suddenly very stiff and anxious animagus. The redhead looked bewildered at his own outburst. Then caught. Then he was desperately attempting to rush past the whole affair as he always did when regarding a topic that desperately needed tending to. 

He went on, rambling about sugar and cream and which tea would be best for the time of day and the weather. Meanwhile, Azira attempted to find the end of the request. Don’t what? Don’t praise Crowley? He’d enjoyed that a moment ago. What had he said before? Anthony? Don’t call him Anthony? 

“Is it Anthonia, then?” he brusquely interrupted, curiosity rushing in head-first as it always did. Crowley looked so shocked he poured some of the tea over his hand, cursing and allowing the blonde to take the thermos and cup from him so he could shake his hand and hiss over the mild burn. 

“Fuck I’m- I’m sorry- I-,” he floundered, glancing up anxiously to find Azira’s worried gaze. The librarian held out his hand expectantly, and Crowley offered it up without much fuss. He allowed the blonde to look it over and mumble a spell, unsure golden eyes watching him as he tenderly kissed it and smiled. “No. Not Anthonia. Not Anthony. Just- just Crowley. For today, I mean.” 

Blue eyes looked over him appraisingly, noticing his fidgeting, observing his labored breathing, feeling his pulse rocketing where a soft thumb rubbed soothing circles over a thin wrist. 

“Pronouns?” Azira requested. It’d been a long time since he’d asked. Too long. Crowley’s anxiety redoubled under it, and his angel couldn’t help but feel he was stumbling upon something. 

“Normal,” Crowley blurted out. 

“‘Normal’?” Azira echoed, the fact that Crowley would refer to a certain set of pronouns as such leaving a sour taste in his mouth at repeating it.

“Uh. Y’know. He/Him. ‘S fine. I’m sorry.” 

“What could you possibly be sorry for?” Azira asked in concern, adjusting to sit closer so he might brush his hand over Crowley’s back. 

“I just- I’m… It’s been a lo- ll- t- lon- long time since I- I don’t know how to do this. I’m w- www- wo- worried I’m not very good at it.” 

The blonde tilted his head, trying to understand. “Good at what, darling?” 

“Being… in a relationship. A proper one. Dating. It’s been a long time, and I was so young the last time and- I’m not- I’m-” 

Sudden understanding dawned on Azira. He wasn’t dull; he was aware it was a diversion to the topic previously at hand, but it was still a truth. He wanted to hear Crowley’s truths. 

“Now, darling,” he chastised quietly, holding out his arms in invitation. Crowley took it with watery eyes after a glance over his shoulder, crawling across the blanket to nestle into the embrace. His breathing slowed and his stiffened muscles relaxed as Azira soothed over his upper back and kissed his head, “Look what you’ve done for me. How thoughtful you are. How could you be worried?” 

“I just- I don’t w- wan- want to do it wrong,” he deciphered from the muffling against his shoulder.

“Crowley, look at me,” Azira requested. The animagus slumped as he sat back, looking up at Azira with tired eyes. Was he sleeping enough? Too much? Azira really ought to have kept better track. “You know the whole point of dates is to enjoy each other’s company?” 

“Yeah… but…,” Crowley started, looking down and to the side to fuss with herb leaves again. 

“Now, dearest,” the blonde tutted, lifting that sharp chin and catching those golden eyes. He gave his most comforting smile. Crowley mirrored it the smallest bit. “What did I tell you about making up expectations for me? Let me aid in dissipating the confusion. I wish for you to be happy and relaxed. I wish to hear about your day and watch you get angry over some new experimental herbology practice I could hardly care less about. I wish for you to take a nap and pretend you’re listening to me talk about Akkadian literature while I stroke your hair. I wish to see how much affection we might get away with out here before skirting the line, and I wish to bicker about how it really isn’t sanitary to put fresh food out on the lawn, blanket or no.” 

He earned a coy grin, and Crowley leaned in, delivering a deep, slow kiss to his lips that left him forgetting about all the delicious dishes unnervingly close to whatever bugs and bacteria resided in the grass. 

“So you mean, just spend time together?” 

“If you could imagine such a wild concept,” Azira teased, glad to see Crowley bark a laugh and flop down to roll onto his back. After a moment of graceless squirming, he managed to sprawl out with his head in Azira’s lap. 

“Well hurry up then, eat your food. Get on with the Akkadians,” he demanded, and Azira wondered if perhaps he spoiled him a bit too much.

“The people weren’t Akkadian, the empire was. Well- I suppose the people were, too, but for such a short-lived rule- only two centuries- it seems much more proper to refer to them as mesopotamian and to use the term ‘Akkadian’ to refer to the language used during and thereafter the Akkadian Empire. Hence the term ‘Akkadian literature’.” 

Crowley let out a great fake snore. Azira huffed and pinched the great baby’s crooked nose but ceded a grin, “Now, I believe the deal was that you pretend to listen while you nap, that you pretend to nap while you don’t listen.” 

The redhead gave a theatrical stretch, yawning and flopping over to his side, adjusting his head on Azira’s thigh. 

“Alright, wake me up when we get to the testing socially-acceptable PDA boundaries bit.” 

“I believe quite a few things came before that. How about I start trying all these delicious foods that you’ve found for me while you get to work on your raving over plants.” 

“But we will get to it?” Crowley asked, cracking open a hopeful eye to measure up his lover’s expression.

“I suppose if we exhaust the list,” Azira teased, popping a tart into his mouth and humming in delight. 

“Right. I’ll get to work on raving then. Great fun, that,” Crowley mused in delight, turning his head to gaze up at Azira with wide, shining eyes. He did love watching him eat, and Azira had just about gotten over the oddity of the matter. “Have I told you this nonsense about using slug slime as fertilizer? Something about the acid, but it’s not even that acidic! Can you imagine how bloody idiodic that is?” 

Azira smiled at him, leaning down to deliver a strawberry jam-flavored kiss.

“No. But I imagine you’ll inform me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly Fluff, humor, and foreshadowing, this chapter ;3 
> 
> Hope you guys are still okay with staying Crowley/Az centric for now! We will get back to the war, but the boys got some stuff to figure out, first.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema and Azira set out to discover the source of Crowley's strange behavior. Crowley faces the consequences of breaking a promise. They're forced to take a look how their habits impact their life and relationships and at last considers making an important change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Transphobia, dealing with the after effects of transphobia, gender dysphoria.

Something wasn’t right. Azira could tell, and no amount of Crowley working hard to masquerade about as if he was fine was going to fool the librarian on the matter. The promise of honesty was slipping away. He saw it. He saw the pure-blood slinking into old, familiar patterns of laid-back fronts and pretty words. Indeed, they were so carefully spun and catered, and Azira  _ wanted  _ to believe them, but even more than he saw the thick layer of deception, he saw the hints beneath it. The hints that said things were very wrong indeed. 

The ‘Anthony’ incident had reoccurred often enough that Azira had adapted to an uncomfortable habit of never muttering his first name any longer. The pronouns never changed. Neither did the hair. The gendered clothing. The presentation. The stature and anatomy. It was all so uncharacteristically stagnant. 

Then there was the whole matter with the  _ mirrors.  _ The way Crowley was shying away from them more and more. Trying to act casual in his bizarre liquid stature when really he was twisting so as to not be in danger of catching a glimpse. The way that if he did make contact with a reflective surface he would jump away as if he’d been burnt, and a hand would fly to the side of his face to hide behind. 

Their sex life had taken a particularly odd turn. Crowley had been acting so strangely that Azira, much to the redhead’s frustration, had started to feel wrong about engaging in any capacity. There would be times the Herbologist asked to keep his clothing on, for Azira to get him off over his robes, or not to look at or touch him at all. He’d insist he was fine and indeed was clearly wanting, but the blonde found it impossible to participate when his lover was so clearly idling in silent suffering. Originally, he surmised that this was the reason Crowley was spending fewer nights with him. This conclusion was short lived, and he realized instead that the pure-blood was in hiding. He’d pretend he was looking for a new research topic and show up at breakfast the next morning, clearly hungover.

Azira wasn’t the only person to notice. Only a short discussion was needed for Anathema to volunteer to search Crowley out on one of his nights alone, on a mission to discover what was truly going on beneath it all. 

The witch attempted to idle a bit after her conversation with the librarian, busying herself as long as she could with asking the cosmos questions on how to approach the situation. Practicing Divination only got her so far before all signs pointed to getting on with it, already.

She made her way through the maze of the ground floor near 11 o’clock at night, running into a couple Slytherins and mercifully sparing them point-reductions so long as they went straight back to their dorm. Upon reaching the Herbology office, her fingers curled shut, and she gently rapped her knuckles on the door. No answer. Of course, he couldn’t make it easy for her. 

“Crowley, it’s me. Open the door?” 

No answer. She pressed her ear to the door, hearing only a faint groaning, and her heart sank in her chest. 

_ “Alohamora,”  _ she mumbled, directing her wand at the door. She tried to turn the knob again. Of course. Charm-proofed. Azira was such an enabler. 

Anathema flowed outside and tried the garden door, only to find the same situation. Her hands flew to her hips and she huffed, eyeing the window next to it. 

“Stupid snake. Not enough to be a criminal, he has to make us all join in.” 

The charm worked on the window, and she struggled to shove it open, cursing under her breath as she hiked up her robes, clambered in through the opening, and did her best not to knock over any plants in the process. Somewhere nearby she heard the faucet running. A couple empty liquor bottles were abandoned in the empty kitchenette, and the witch’s heart felt like it was being strangled in Devil’s Snare.

“Crowley?” she called out, wandering about the chambers until finding the bathroom door ajar. 

The first thing she saw was the sink, a glass vial lay on the counter of it, and she drew nearer to find it was hair growth potion. Inside the confines of the basin were piled red locks of hair and a pair of shears. Then her deep brown eyes ventured upwards, and her pulse took a long pause as she saw only remnants of the mirror in place. 

Rushing forth, she found the remaining shards scattered across the floor. The familiar figure of Crowley was bent over the toilet. His hair was utterly butchered, cut into uneven, short, choppy layers. From where she stood, she could see the knuckles of his right hand splintered with glass and bloodied. His feet were in similar shape from stepping over the glass. 

“Crowley…,” she whimpered, feeling dread coil in her stomach. 

He tilted his cheek against his arm to gaze blearily up at her. His free hand offered a loose flap in her direction.

“Nnh- nnn- no, you shouldn’t… be here… s- ssssss- see this,” he groaned. 

“A bit late for that, dumbass,” she huffed, pulling out her wand, “Stay still okay?” 

With some quiet spell-work, the mirror was repaired, the blood cleaned, and his wounds healed. Minding to be gentle and comforting, she gathered up her robes and knelt down beside the shivering figure, pressing his hair out of his clammy face as he heaved into the toilet. They sat that way for several moments, waiting for the last of it to pass. 

When five minutes had gone since the last bout and Crowley was beginning to doze off on his forearm, Anathema got him a glass of water and coaxed him to rinse out his mouth. One of his arms was slung over her shoulders, and she grunted while heaving him off the ground. The pair staggered back and forth on their way to the bed, and the witch all but slung the wizard’s upper half onto it, grabbing his legs and lifting them up after before tucking him under the duvet.

Crowley hummed a noise of contentment, turning to snuggle into his nest of pillows and blankets. 

“Hey,” she spoke sharply, swatting at him, “No. We need to talk about this.” 

“Noooooo, fa-fu- tal- fuck  _ talking,”  _ he groaned. 

Running out of patience, the witch reached to turn him over, ignoring as he wailed as if she were attacking him. 

“Crowley. What happened? Why did you punch the mirror?” 

That earned a bit of silence. She could practically see the gears turning in his head. Luckily for her, he was a horrible liar when shitfaced. 

“Didn’t mean to,” he mumbled, “It just happened.”

“That doesn’t just  _ happen.  _ Tell me the truth. Why did you do it?”

“...I didn’t want to see it anymore.” 

Anathema narrowed her eyes, scooting to sit beside Crowley’s hip. Her fingers sought out his and when they found purchase, tangled together. 

“To see yourself?”

He was quiet for a long time, and turned away again. 

“I’m trying,” he said at last, with a hoarse, pained voice.

The witch looked over him, pushing her dark hair over her shoulder. She blew out a slow sigh, reaching to rub slow, soothing circles into his back. “Why are you drunk?” 

“Can’t s- sss- stand to be sober. It all feels so real.” 

“Crowley, you can be whatever you want to be. Why are you suppressing yourself?” 

Another extended pause. 

“Not suppressing anything. Just accepting what I am. Trying to.” 

“I’d argue you’re rejecting what you are, on the contrary.” 

He pivoted his chin. A snake-like eye shot a glare at her, “That’s not for you to decide.” 

“As if it’s not obvious?” she countered, a frown pulling at her lips. 

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.” 

Frustration grew to a boiling point in Anathema’s chest, and she felt it start to steam out as if she were a tea kettle. Why did he have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t he just  _ talk  _ about his feelings? Why did every fucking thing that went on with him have to be buried under fifty layers of obscurity?

“Fine,” she huffed, standing, “I think I have all I need. I’ll be on my way.”

“No!” 

They were both surprised at the outburst. Wide brown eyes locked onto frightened golden ones, and Crowley sat up, transitioning into a sheepish, pleading gaze. 

“I don’t want to be alone with myself. Please. Please, st- sss- ugh, stay?” 

Anathema hesitated, giving Crowley a long look. Resistance was futile when she gazed into those soft, pleading, fearful eyes. She heaved a put-upon huff, crawling into the bed behind him and cozying up to spoon him. He was all too pleased, nestling back against her and intertwining their fingers over his stomach.

“Why not spend time with Azira if you don’t want to be alone?”

She felt Crowley wince, but she couldn’t find it in herself to feel remorse. She needed answers. She needed to understand what was going on in his head. 

“Because… he sees everything. I don’t want him to see this.” 

Anathema sounded a slow sigh, pressing her face against the back of Crowley’s neck and taking a deep breath in.

“He loves you, Crowley. All of you. It’s okay to be who you are.” 

He shook his head, the back of his ruined hair tickling her forehead. 

“It’s not who I am. Just a defect that needs to be trained out.”

“That’s not right...,” she started.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Ana,” he pleaded, “Please. Please I can’t. I d- do- dun- eargh! Don’t want to think about it anymore. It hurts too much. Tell me a story. Tell me about Agnes again.” 

The witch felt a storm of confliction well up inside her. She’d come here to confirm their suspicions, and she had succeeded. What good would pressing Crowley further on the subject do? This was beyond her. All she could do was support her friend, let him cry and hurt and hold him while he did so. Of course, she longed to provide reassurances, but at the moment it seemed he wouldn’t accept them. Hopefully Azira would know what to do. Crowley’s last breakdown was so recent. She couldn’t bear the pain of a recurrence. She wasn’t sure Crowley could either.

“Okay,” she ceded, “I’ll tell you a story.”

* * *

Azira wasn’t quite sure what to do, but he was hopeful he’d know when the opportunity arose. A discussion with Valencia had proved most unhelpful; she’d curtly made him aware that while she shared his concerns, he was clearly more practiced than her on coaxing Crowley to confide on dark issues. 

Anathema’s report had been harrowing. A simple, “It’s bad, Azira. He- they’re very fragile right now. Whatever you do, proceed with caution.” 

Indeed, he was taking care, and what he lacked in any incentive to engage in Crowley’s bizarre sexual requests, he made up for in excessive attention, coddling, and planning. He attempted to plan as many outings and activities together as possible to minimize the time his love was alone with their thoughts. 

They’d been to restaurants, plant nurseries, and Muggle tourism sites. It’d all gone swimmingly at first. Then, naturally, Crowley began to catch on. Azira might have expected it, seeing as how clever they were. By the time Crowley would stand to take their leave each night, the librarian would blurt out that he’d appreciate help shelving books (which he had charms for) or working on his research (which Crowley had no interest in). He’d get a raised red dubious brow in turn and would have to resort to feigning disappointment to tempt the tempter themself to stick around later. He’d lodged complaints of feeling lonely in an empty bed. Suggested he simply became too hot without the cool body there to even out the temperature beneath the sheets. 

The blonde found himself eager to get to the bottom of this sooner rather than later. Crowley couldn’t be pushed on matters such as these, of course, but they were rather a slippery serpent and couldn’t allow anyone else to have a handle on them and their demons for too long. 

Still, when Azira went shopping to his usual high-end vintage Muggle clothing shops, he dragged Crowley along, knowing well that they enjoyed adventures in the Muggle world too much to turn one down. Their enthusiasm today likened that of a child at an amusement park, and he took great joy in watching them peruse the aisles, laughing heartily and modeling the most ridiculous and gaudy old pieces he could find. 

Eventually they settled down enough that Azira was at last able to shop for himself without feeling his chest flood with admiration, rendering him useless. He’d just returned from the dressing room, trying on a few different waistcoats in particularly pristine condition before he realized Crowley was gone. He wandered around the small shop, finding the familiar slender figure of his partner standing in front of a rack of dresses. Before them they held a beautiful gown Azira estimated to age back to the mid-twenties. It was black and flowing with intricate bead and thread work on the bodice and long, sheer, flowing cuts of fabric over the shoulders The neck line was cut low in the front and back, and no doubt their pronounced collar bone and shoulder blades would look absolutely appetizing in the number. Strips of shimmering velvet made up the skirt portion, hemmed in a pointed scallop pattern. It was absolutely stunning. Azira spared a moment to think of how wonderfully it would suit them and wondered if, by the way they were looking at it, they felt the same.

Something in his heart jumped and started pounding harder, sending warm excitement pumping through his veins as their love removed the dress from the hanger and wandered to the mirror, holding it up to their body and smoothing their hand over it. They turned to the side, preening over the image. Azira could only imagine what the sheer fabric would look like draped and fluttering around their long freckled arms. Was Crowley thinking the same thing? Oh and the length suited them, too, ending about three or four inches below their knees. How divine their thin, smooth calves would look flashing beneath that hemline.

The joy was cut short as blue eyes traveled back up to the sharp face he’d become so besotted with and found agony cut into each of the features. They pulled the dress away, replacing the hanger and adjusting it horizontally on the rack so they might still observe it, running their fingers over the many details and hosting an expression that couldn’t be described as anything other than longing. 

“Do you like that, my darling?” 

Crowley leapt nearly half a meter at the voice, spinning around and looking quite like they were caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

“Huh? Oh! Nn- nnn- mmh, no, I mean- it’s pretty, but- not for me, obviously,” they stuttered, turning defiantly to gaze out the window and sniff. 

Azira wasn’t quite sure what was so obvious about the matter. He only raised a brow at his partner, feeling he could summon all the patience in the world if it meant pressuring Crowley closer to the truth. At last, Crowley tipped their chin the slightest bit to turn their shielded gaze on Azira. They squirmed at the expectant expression they found, clearing their throat.

“I was just- there’s- erm,” they stalled, clearly manifesting an excuse as they did so, “There’s a big event next week. A classy affair, y’know? For Ostara. Val likes vintage clothes. So. Just looking for her.” 

“Hmm,” Azira hummed, not quite convinced. Blue eyes appraised the herbologist, and the subject of the scrutiny pivoted uncomfortably, attempting to slouch into something convincing enough to pass as laid-back. The blonde had only been acquainted with Valencia Heller a short time, but already he was aware that her particular fashion tastes landed about three decades later than the article Crowley was currently entertaining. 

“I, er- there’s a mmm- mmm- Muggle plant store across the way, I’ll wait for you there?” 

Azira gave them a doubtful look, but knew better than to initiate a discussion about such a delicate matter in public, “Alright, I won’t be long.” 

“Don’t be daft, angel. Take your time,” they insisted, offering a sheepish grin and laying a tender kiss to the edge of Azira’s mouth before passing him on their way out. 

Blue eyes returned to the dress, still rudely hung across the tidy vertical row of garments, and Azira stepped closer, seeing the potential of it better than any opportunity he’d stumbled across in weeks. 

* * *

The sun had long since gone down and the students sent to bed, but the deep purple glow from the horizon still washed through the library office window and over Crowley’s face where they laid comfortably splayed out on their side atop the sofa. Their head was propped up on their arm, and they lazily spun their wand in their free hand as they watched Azira poured over his research. By this time, they’d stopped making Azira come up with excuses and began sticking around of their own accord. 

“It’s Ostara next week,” they spoke over the sound of Shubert on the record player. 

Azira only briefly looked up over his glasses to acknowledge them, busy at work with his white-feathered quill. 

“You mentioned earlier.” 

Crowley delivered a long, appraising look, as if they were disappointed at the exchange and waiting for the librarian to say the right thing. The blonde recognized this, endeavoring a second attempt.

“Any plans, dearest?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley started. Apparently that had been the correct contribution. “Every year my family throws this big classy shebang for it. This year it’s an art show for M- mmm- fo- ma, ugh. Manny. To celebrate his work as the cover of Magical Masterpieces Magazine, ‘n’all. Lots of people. Black tie affair. Biggest celebration all year.” 

“Do you enjoy it?” 

“Well, not the set up. Mum gets so angry she forgets English and practically petrifies the poor staff. I end up translatin’ and, therefore, ending up the one yelled at. After that, though, it’s wicked. Lots of booze and music and dancin’ and explosives. Bloody brilliant combination, that. ‘S wicked.”

“I would imagine that would be quite up your alley.” 

A long pause passed, the only sound Crowley squirming to shift onto his back. Azira nearly allowed the curiosity the uncharacteristic silence manifested to drive his focus back up at his partner before a tentative, nervous voice interrupted Symphony Number 8 yet again.

“Do you want to go?”

When blue eyes returned to appraise their partner, they were pointedly looking at the ceiling, those blasted shades in place, again. Only a few moments of wondering why on earth Crowley would tip-toe around the matter passed until realization struck Azira like a hippogriff. They were asking if he wanted to visit their family home. If he wanted to meet their family. Their  _ parents.  _

“Oh, my dear! I would absolutely love to join you,” Azira schmoozed. His heart was beating in loud, objecting thumps, but he refused to allow nerves to keep their relationship from progressing. Crowley was so closed off. So secretive. Especially when it came to their past. Here they were, unlocking the door for Azira. Nudging it open in hopes he might come through and look around. 

Crowley’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and they fixed Azira with a smile that had so much gravity behind it, it surely made the world go round. An idea quickly took root in the blonde’s head. 

“Black tie, did you say? I might have gotten you something you’d like.” 

Red eyebrows shot up in amusement, “Wassit? You’re going to go tucking me into ancient frills, then?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous; you act like I don’t know you at all. I could do without the cheek, by the way,” Azira scolded over his shoulder as he made his way into his chambers and puttered about. 

“I think you like the cheek,” he heard Crowley shout past the cracked door before hearing a muffled mumble. A few times, they’d attempted to turn this whole situation around- to suggest perhaps they were out of sorts because Azira refused to see to them sexually. A sharp, warning look was typically enough to shut up that line of banter. It was bad enough it was meant to manipulate Azira away from the issue at the core of it, the librarian was keen on believing that Crowley’s attempt to gaslight  _ themself  _ was much worse. 

Nevertheless, he pretended he couldn’t hear the grumbling, returning with a garment bag and quite pleased with himself when Crowley sat up, immediately intrigued. He earned that sharp, devilish grin he’d come to be so madly in love with and indulged himself in plucking the sunglasses off the bridge of their nose. Oh it was worth it to see those slitted pupils, fat with happiness and curiosity. 

“Whatever are you up to, Professor Fell?” 

“I daresay my only intent is to make you happy, darling. Is that so suspicious?” he asked, an innocent grin on his features. 

Crowley smirked, rolling to their feet so languidly it probably took magic to ensure they didn’t sprawl straight onto the floor. They sauntered over to Azira, taking the garment bag from him, hanging it on the bedroom door, and unzipping it more eagerly than a kid opening their presents on Christmas morning.

Azira felt anxiety gnawing at his stomach now and twisted his hands together before his belly. Crowley had gone stock-still, shoulders raised stiff beside their ears. From where the older wizard was standing, he couldn’t see their expression. An aching hand reached its fingers to take their shoulder, or run through the burst of short red hair, but faltered halfway, curling in and returning to wrestle with the other of its pair. 

“It’s just that you seemed so taken with it, and I must admit I couldn’t help but imagine how absolutely stunning you might look in it.” 

Crowley finally turned at that, urging the breath Azira had been holding hostage in his lungs to trickle out slowly through his nostrils. There was no anger on that sharp face. No pain. No scorn. No sign of lashing out or running away. 

There was only confusion, stronger than Azira had ever seen it before.

“You…,” they started, softly, so shell shocked they nearly jumped at the sound of their voice. They swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and tried again. “You…. w- www- wuh- to we- wan- eh- want? Want me to wear a dress?” 

The earnestness of the simple question hung in the air, leaving powerful resonating echoes of silence in its wake. Azira’s own expression twisted into pained compassion. 

“Ant- Crowley, I want you to wear what you want to wear. What’s going on? Please tell me all this business about your- about the way you present and express yourself isn’t because of some idea you’ve formed about my opinion? I can tell you now, if that’s the case and you’ve gotten the impression I’ll feel anything short of complete support and adoration about your comfort, then you’re very sorely mistaken, indeed. 

Guilt flashed across those serpentine eyes, and Azira soon found himself wrapping his fingers through a spindly set and guiding his lover close. Crowley was hanging their head low, eyes flickering about in mild panic. They looked in every direction save for the waiting blue skies straight ahead. 

“Crowley?” he asked, as softly as he could manage. Hopefully, the promise of gentle understanding would earn that alarmed gaze. It didn’t.

“I…,” Crowley choked out, withdrawing as much as they could without taking their hands away. They clutched harder around Azira’s plush fingers, as if they were about to be ripped out to sea and the wizard was their only lifeline. “I want you to be attracted to me.” 

It was Azira’s turn to contort his features in confusion, squeezing Crowley’s hands in turn. “Darling, I am. Of course, I am. Please tell me you’re joking.” 

He watched the redhead swallow again. Their lower lip was threatening to tremble, and sharp teeth bit down to still it as yellow eyes stared straight at the floor. 

“I know you are. As a man. I have to be a man. You’re attracted to  _ men.” _

The librarian didn’t register the moment he snatched Crowley into his arms. He didn’t notice how many moments passed from the most heart-broken sob he’d ever heard into his shoulder. He didn’t recall staggering them over to the couch and wrapping the figure up into a blanket on his lap. But there they were. This was wrong.  _ So  _ wrong. How had Crowley gotten such a ridiculous notion trapped in their head?

“No. No, Crowley. I’m attracted to  _ you-  _ are you listening? Do you hear me?” he asked softly, lifting a sharp chin in his hands and looking deeply into those soft star-filled eyes, swimming with tears. 

Crowley shook his head, trembling in Azira’s arms. “I know you love me. I know that. But if you had to  _ force  _ yourself to pretend to be something yon- nnn- yo- you’re not then I’d n- nn- nev-  _ fucking-  _ I’d never forgive myself!”

“And why should I feel any differently than you do?” Azira pleaded. He paused, taking a deep breath. They’d never get anywhere if he was just as worked up. “Crowley. I’ve never needed to fight against my own nature to be attracted to you. I’ve always loved what I’ve seen at your core. I love that soft and compassionate nature past your standoff-ish persona- “

“I’m not soft!” Crowley wailed in a way that might be comical were they not so terribly upset. 

“Shhh-,” Azira hushed, pressing a kiss to their head before continuing, “I love your cheek and your wit. I love you when you’re proud of one of your clever ideas. I love when you feel comfortable in your own skin, whatever shape that takes. I love so many traits. So long as they’re authentically you, I’m hopeless for them, dearest.” 

“But it isn’t authentic ‘t’all, is it?” a sob ripped from the slender frame, “It’s just some cry for attention. A cheap, tasteless party trick that hurts actual trans people.” 

_ “Actual-,”  _ Azira repeated, feeling quite like someone had sucker-punched the air out of his chest. He leaned back to look into Crowley’s face, but they had it buried in their hands as they wept. “Crowley. Is that from you? Is it you who’s telling me that you slide in and out of genders, or none at all, solely for the attention of others?” 

“I- I don’t…,” he heard, muffled by palms before Crowey buried their forehead in Azira’s shoulder and clutched at his robes. There was no follow up. 

The librarian tried not to be too aggrieved. He didn’t want Crowley getting the wrong idea that their pain was something for him to be burdened with. When had this started? 

They’d cut their hair, he remembered that much. That was after- after-

The night he’d found them in London. The night after they’d gotten into that row with Emiliano Heller. The night Crowley had looked up at him, pride broken and beaten down, and asked him with tears in her eyes if she looked like a man in a dress. 

_ A party trick? That slimy, pretentious, horrible git.  _

Azira buried his face in Crowley’s hair, taking slow inhales of the familiar scent and gently rocking them in his arms. 

“Is that what Heller said to you?” 

The body in his arm stiffened. So that was it. 

“Crowley, what did he say to you? Please. Please tell me,” he urged as softly as he could manage. His instincts told him to pull Crowley away, to force them to look him in the eye, but this situation was too fragile. Force wouldn’t accomplish anything. 

A long pause passed, the only sound filling it was the music from the record-player and the quiet gasps and sniffles Crowley produced as Azira washed soothing circles over their back with a warm palm. 

“Just… what I said before… Thought it was rubbish at first. You saw how mad I was but- but I went back the next mornin’ and… he said that if I could choose my gender, that it wasn’ fair. That I was being selfish because he couldn’t choose his sexuality, and I was trying to force him to be someone he wasn’t. That I was w- wr- wret- wretched and manipulative for trying to make ‘im pretend he was attracted to me as a woman.” 

The voice was muffled and disjointed by hiccups from where it was buried in Azira’s shoulder, still, he had to bury the fury boiling in his stomach before speaking again. There were so many points to be addressed. So much that required tending to. Where to even start. 

“My love, will you please look at me? I need your eyes.” 

Hesitation tensed the muscle beneath Azira’s hand, but it soon wavered and Crowley sat up, looking deeply into his eyes. Oh, they looked pitiful. All involuntary grimaces and streaking tears and reddened distress. But their eyes. Their eyes were as beautiful as ever, that orange-amber ombre was very clear now that the slit of their pupil was so thin from nerves. 

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer it. I don’t want you to think too hard. I just need you to give me the first answer that comes to mind. Please, Crowley. I’m begging you, my dearest heart. Please be honest. I can’t help you if you keep lying to me. Will you tell me the truth?” 

Guilt flashed across that battered face. Their eyes cast downward again, but with the gentlest tap below their chin, they looked back up into their lover’s eyes and jerked their head in a nodding motion.

“Wonderful. Now. When you change your pronouns, your presentation, or your structure- is it because of a decision you’ve made? Or a feeling?”

“It’s not- I don’t  _ think  _ about it. I don’t even  _ feel _ it really. There’s nothing conscious about it, I just,” they blinked rapidly, leaning back. Their fingers gathered together and rested on the center of the chest. The hand came away, and then returned, this time with fingers splayed out over a fast-beating heart. “I just  _ am.” _

Azira slowly lifted his hands, sliding them against either side of Crowley’s jaw and pulling the handsome face forward to kiss away salty tears. 

“It’s just right?” the librarian asked, answered with an eager nod, “Well, my dear. That sounds awfully authentic to me.”

Tension slipped from the leaner figure’s uncharacteristically stiffened shoulders, and they sloped down now. Golden eyes bore desperately into blue, searching for further affirmation.

“Crowley. If you feel right about what you are, I shouldn’t think it’s up to anyone else to call you wrong. Not me. Not your friends or your family. And most  _ certainly  _ not Emiliano fucking Heller.” 

Crowley sniffed, but cracked a smile. Oh, Azira missed seeing that. They choked out a pitiful attempt at a laugh, “you said ‘fuck’.” 

“Well, I’m very cross.” 

“So I’ve noticed.” 

Azira quirked a grin in response, sliding Crowley’s legs off his own. The redhead sounded something between a groan and a whine, likely meant to suggest protest, and Azira sucked his teeth and gently chided, “You could use a good, strong cup of soothing tea, darling. Your nerves are acting up.” 

Crowley huffed, belligerently sprawling out over the sofa in form of protest as their lover moved to fix them tea. 

“Now, may I inquire how you’re currently feeling? Pronouns and the like?” 

A long look was directed at him as he flicked his wand at the kettle and turned to gaze back. He might have been concerned, but Crowley was clearly weighing their answer carefully before saying it allowed. 

“I think I just… I just need to be free of the whole concept, right now. I’ve spent so long feeling tethered down, suffocated by it I just need to be. Let it breathe. Let myself… yeah. They/them, anyway.” 

Azira nodded, giving the most loving smile he could muster. “That makes perfect sense.” 

It was quiet as he poured the tea. He added honey instinctively even though Crowley didn’t like it very much. They hadn’t been eating well, from what Thelpie had told him (she was much more amenable to fretting over Crowley at Azira now that she was free), and sugar might help them feel less run-down. 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t accept you unless you identified as a man?” he asked, so softly he wasn’t quite sure Crowley could hear it. When he turned back, the look on their face was so ashamed, he knew they had. The sharp edge of the situation had been dulled, and Azira finally became aware of his own hurt feelings. The cup was delivered to Crowley, still shaking so hard they immediately opted to set it down on the table with its saucer after a quick sip. That was fine, Azira figured, he could always reheat it with a swish of the wand. 

“It’s just that Emile-”

“I’m not Emile.” 

Crowley looked surprised. Their gaping mouth slowly shut, and guilt flashed across their features. 

“I just want to be everything you want.” 

If Azira had felt a knife in his heart earlier, that had given it a vicious twist. 

“I want… I want  _ you,  _ Crowley. I’m sorry, if I haven’t said it loud or often enough. I’ve always found you stunning, no matter your presentation. That little ensemble of yours on Halloween… my goodness. I still think about it. And when you kissed me on new years. You were so precious. Then- that night. That night that he dared to make you feel anything less than the absolute vision of intoxicating beauty you were- love, you haven’t an idea. When I got you so drunk on lust with words alone. You haven’t an idea how terribly I wished I could have taken you right then and there. Perhaps in the past I may have identified as homosexual, but you’ve never quite been one for rules, have you? Dismantling the laws wherever you go, rewriting them to fulfil your fancy.” 

He was immensely relieved to find the tears had stopped, a blush taking the place of tears on shapely cheekbones, and Crowley took another sip of tea before flashing a grin, sharp canines on full display. 

“A hellion, me.” 

“A hellion, indeed.” 

Some sense of the pain must have still been present, because Crowley set down their tea a second time, scooting close to wrap Azira in their arms and tilt their foreheads together before murmuring, “I’m sorry I made assumptions. I’m sorry I hurt us both in doing so. I didn’t mean- it doesn’t matter what I meant. I fucked up.” 

Azira wanted to slap on his forgiveness like a bandage on a wound and expect it to heal properly. He wanted to give Crowley an indulgent kiss and drag them to the bedroom and see to the deprivation that had been driving them both up walls. He wanted to make a joke to lighten the mood and watch the guilt wash away. But the bandage couldn’t go on before stitches. That was not how it worked. 

He tried his very best to keep the injury from his voice. He failed. 

“You promised no more secrets. No more lies.” 

Crowley winced, but when Azira made no indication of pulling away, they didn’t either. Their arm slid from where it had settled around the broader wizard’s back, and they tangled pairs of hands together where their legs were crossed against the side of Azira’s thigh. 

“I’m sorry for that, too.” 

_ Be gentle, be gentle,  _ the wizard wanted to remind himself, but was it right to put so much effort forth to do so when it came at the cost of his own silent suffering? What kind of example did that set? 

“Why?” it was more of an accusation than a question, and Crowley was shying away now. “Why won’t you trust me? What am I doing wrong? What have I done to deserve so much doubt?” 

That got the pure-blood’s attention, and they were now staring on in mortified shock. A vicious shake of their head started up long before words followed. 

“No! No, angel, Az, that’s not what I-.” 

They paused, gears spinning, and Azira saw it immediately, the inventions of yet another lie. He scoffed, half in injury, half in disbelief, and moved to snatch his hands away. Crowley clutched on for dear life and leaned forward, tears starting up again.

Finally, there it was- honesty. Written across their features in ugly, terrified authenticity. He remained where he was, waiting patiently. He would manifest all the patience in the world if it meant a truthful answer. 

“Azira. Azira, I- I love you  _ so  _ much. You have to know that. It’s… it’s what I said before. Back when we first… were  _ together.  _ I’m so afraid that if I show you everything, I’ll scare you away.” 

“Yes, and I told you the only way you could push me away is by keeping away. I told you I want to stand  _ with  _ you, side by side against your demons and any other darkness, and help carry the burden. I told you I wanted to know you. You told me you would let me. I remember the conversation well. I remember your promise better.” 

Crowley looked him squarely in the eye. There was fear there now. 

“I… I keep waiting,” they explained, gulping hard and letting their panicked gaze wander before forcing itself to return to Azira’s, “For the other shoe to drop.” 

Azira’s brow remained furrowed, now from equal parts frustration and confusion. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean. The door’s open. One foot in and one foot out. I want you to come in. I want you to stay and I don’t- I don’t know what’s going to make you look out at that great big world, full of possibilities and wonder and things that are so much bigger and more beautiful and more worthy of your attention than  _ me.  _ I don’t know what I’m going to do that’s going to make you wise up and have the foot inside join the other outdoors. What’s going to make that door shut forever and I,” a choked sob caught in their throat, “Azira it keeps me up at night. I’m terrified of so many things; I have to carry each one of those terrible memories with me to exist as nightmares and haunt me every step of the way, but none of those fears are as real as this.”

Azira looked at them long and hard. He twisted, bringing a leg up onto the sofa and folding it over theirs before lifting a hand to brush alongside their face. They shut their eyes hard, brow furrowed, cool cheek leaning into the warm, inviting palm.

“What would make you think I have a foot outside the door?” 

Crowley’s anxiety transitioned into something Azira couldn’t quite name. It looked something like acceptance. Giving into something one had kept at bay. 

“I…,” they took a deep breath, “Was engaged, once.” 

“Yes. To Neville. In your early twenties, wasn’t it?” 

Were they not in the middle of a rather serious heart-to-heart, Azira would have laughed at the shock that flashed across the redhead’s face. 

“I- how did you k- knnnn- nuh- knn- sod all-  _ know  _ that?” 

“Neville and I discussed it during your sabbatical- don’t make that face. I rather think I bullied the confession out of him. He’s a fine chap. Very eager to assuage me that he had found happiness elsewhere and your affections were free for me to claim as my own.” 

My, that was a charming shade of red on Crowley. 

“R-right… well. Ahem,” Crowley started, clearly disoriented by the new information. They took a moment to continue on with their cup of tea, gathering their bearings. A couple looks were thrown to Azira to spot any indication of agitation, but the wizard was very calm. Only gentle expectation resided on his features. A slow sigh sounded from the animagus when they finished the beverage off, and they fiddled with its place on the saucer as they carried on. 

“We were together for six years. A long time. We were happy, I thought. Life was hard after… well, I don’t need to tell you. He was so kind. So patient. I wasn’t afraid of running out that patience because I was so sure he loved me and he was there to stay. I was comfortable with it. With us. When he asked me to marry him, I thought ‘well done, you, you’ve found someone that’ll put up with you no matter what’, but then he…” 

The redhead looked frustrated. Whether it was frustration with the memory or with themself, Azira didn’t know. Either way, they raised a tight fist to begrudgingly smear away a solitary tear. 

“It was over. Just like that. He said we ought not to be together any more, that I should move on by myself and figure out my options. I thought- I was stupid. I thought it was some sort of catch all. That we would figure out what it was like to be adults and come back together. I thought he had every intention of coming back to me because- because like I said; he loved me. He loved me so why would he leave me? But th- ther- then-  _ then there  _ was that blasted party where he met Hannah and…”

They swallowed, words caught in their throat, and their face twisted as they looked down at where their fingers were tangled with Azira’s. 

“I don’t- I don’t know what I did to convince him to leave. I don’t know what I’ll do to make you leave, too. I thought- I thought he was both feet in-”

“Where were yours?”

Crowley blinked away tears, eyes shifting to fix on Azira in confusion. 

“What?”

“Your feet. Did you ever wonder if maybe it was you with one foot out the door? You were young. You didn’t know any of your options. The two of you helped one another heal after a traumatic event. Perhaps you’d grown accustomed to swaying with the motions. Perhaps he saw that and decided if you wouldn’t take that step out the door, he’d give you a push, and my love, look what wonderful things you’ve done with it.” 

Crowley gaped. They opened and closed their mouth several times, eyes pivoting around in confusion. 

“I- I didn’t ever… I didn’t think about it like that.” 

Azira smiled, minding to keep it gentle as he tugged Crowley impossibly closer and bumped their nose with his own. 

“I’m not Heller, and I’m not Neville.” 

A flickering flame of guilt lit in Crowley’s heart and burnt through his chest like a wildfire. They ducked their head, resting their forehead against the crook of Azira’s neck and wrapping their arms around his shoulders yet again. What could they say? What was their excuse? It was true, Azira had done nothing to deserve such paranoia. He’d never been anything but patient and kind. He’d so willingly helped Crowley work through every one of his traumas and problems, and that wasn’t really his job, was it? To support him, maybe, to provide advice, but not to fix it. He wasn’t a therapist, he was their partner. Crowley became achingly aware that they had been nothing short of entirely unfair. 

It was exactly what Valencia had said. They’d run from their past. Tried to bury it and pretend it didn’t haunt them. It was the open wound she spoke of, and the infection was deep, seeping into their life and affecting their relationships. They were sabotaging themself. Sabotaging the one relationship that meant more to them than anything in the world.

_ If I start self-sabotaging, I’ll go… dunno, get my fucking head shrunk.  _

They had said that, hadn’t they? Fuck. 

“I know, angel. I know that, and I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve that.” 

Crowley allowed Azira’s soft hands to take their arms, to pull them away to look into their face. There was so much  _ compassion  _ there. How did he find so much tolerance for Crowley and all the harmful effects of their unsorted baggage. 

“No, I don’t, but Crowley, I need you to realize that I stand before you, both feet in. I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to remain in your orbit, but for that to happen, you  _ must  _ stop pushing. I need the occasional pull. I need you to let me in.” 

“I will,” Crowley said eagerly, looking hard at Azira with what they desperately hoped was conveyed as sincerity. They meant every word they said, “I’m going to get my shit together, Azira, and I  _ don’t  _ mean sweeping it under the rug like I have done. I’m going to pick up a bloody broom. Put the rubbish in the bin. Sort my mess back where it’s meant to be. I’m not going to hide the process from you, but I’m not going to make it your responsibility, either. I’m going to set the table and m- mmm- make sure you feel welcome home.” 

Evidently, their words were passionate enough to be believed. Azira’s eyes turned soft, and Crowley’s insides went mush. How could he still do that? How, after Crowley had lied to him so many times, did he still find it in himself to have such faith in them? 

“I’m always here for you, dearest,” he murmured so gently, grasping Crowley’s chin and offering them an indulgent kiss before pulling away again. Crowley tried not to break into tears all over again. It was humbling, being offered the forgiveness of an angel. “I love you ever so dearly.” 

“I know,” Crowley confirmed, believing it with their whole heart, “I don’t deserve you- don’t argue with me, not now- I don’t deserve you, but I’m going to work hard until I do. And… thank you. For the dress. It’s beautiful.” 

The clouds in those blue skies made way for some sunshine now, and Azira smiled, pressing his lips all over Crowley’s face until they were laughing and wrestling him away. 

“Only right, isn’t it? A beautiful dress for a beautiful person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Slides in singing "I want you back" by Jackson 5* 
> 
> I'm sorry for how long it's been! I haven't forgotten about you or this fic <3 . I've found a bit of a groove with my other WIP, Stitch Me Up. When I started a second fic, I wasn't anticipating how difficult it would be to shift mental gears between the two! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed finally getting some closure with this sub-plot!
> 
> That said, the time away hasn't been wasted, and I've finally figured out how to finish this story! I'm very excited to share with you guys~
> 
> Please leave comments, if you're able. I LOVE seeing what you guys liked and it greatly motivates me to put out chapters faster!


End file.
